University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


JOHN    KENDRY'S 
IDEA 


ETHEL 


JOHN   KENDRY'S 
IDEA 


by 

Chester  Bailey   Fernald 

Author  of  "The  Cat  and  the  Cherub" 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  BY  C.  D.  WILLIAMS 


NEW   YORK 

THE   OUTING    PUBLISHING   COMPANY 
MCMVII 


Copyright,  1906,  1907,  by 
THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 
A II  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGS 

I  SOME  FLAMES  AND  A  FLAME      .       .      V     I 

II    IN  THE  MIST 19 

III  THE  OLDER  WOMAN      .       .       .       .       .     38 

IV  A  VISIT  TO  CHAN  Kow        ....     54 
V  A  SOURCE  OF  INFORMATION        ...     72 

VI  MEETING  A  HARD  FACT                              .     81 

VII  THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  BRINK                      .     93 

VIII     SOME  INDICATIONS 106 

IX  A  GENERAL  ENGAGEMENT    .       .       .       .119 

X  A  WHIRL  IN  OBSCURITY      .       .       .       .133 

XI    Two  HOME-GOINGS 145 

XII    A  CHOICE  OF  ALLIES 156 

XIII  Two  KINDS  OF  WEATHER     .        .       .       .168 

XIV  Two  LETTERS 179 

XV  A  TRANSACTION  IN  OXYGEN       .       .       .187 

XVI    RICH  YOUNG  MEN 198 

XVII  THE  DESERT  OF  DOUBT        ....  210 

XVIII  A  SPRIG  OF  CEANOTHUS       .       .       .       .221 

XIX    A  CHANCE  TO  DRIFT 230 

XX  AN  IMPORTANT  PROMISE      ....  236 

XXI  A  NEW  MARY                               .       .       .248 


539113 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

XXII 

A  SIMILAR  EXCURSION 

.  264 

XXIII 

KENDRY'S  WILL    .       . 

.  274 

XXIV 

ETHEL'S  PLAN      

.  287 

XXV 

THE  VEILED  LADY      .... 

.  302 

XXVI 

A  SELF-DISCOVERY       .... 

•  309 

XXVII 

A  MIND  AND  A  PAIR  OF  PISTOLS    . 

•  325 

XXVIII 

THE  BEGINNING  

•  335 

JOHN    KENDRY'S 
IDEA 


JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

CHAPTER   I 

SOME  FLAMES  AND  A  FLAME 

THE  world  will  conform  with  reason  when  it  ceases 
to  conform  with  chance.  Some  irrelevant  person  had 
abandoned  a  liqueur  bottle  on  a  spur  of  the  mountain 
halfway  to  the  summit  from  the  sea.  Some  other  irrel- 
evant person,  happening  there  in  the  passing  years  had 
hurled  the  bottle  against  a  bowlder.  Where  the  bot- 
tom section  of  it  lodged  unfractured  amid  the  other 
fragments  was  a  slope  to  southwestward  covered  with 
a  clayey  soil  congenial  to  the  oat.  Farther  up,  a 
rounded  oak  spread  its  branches  close  to  the  ground; 
and  farther  down  a  green  border  of  cascara  and  young 
laurel  ran.  The  mountain  top  was  hidden  by  an 
ascending  brow  to  eastward.  To  westward,  across  the 
canon  depths,  was  the  long  and  nearly  even  height 
whose  yonder  terrace  footed  in  the  sea.  The  round- 
topped  hollow  cone  on  the  bottle  bottom — indented  in 
order  that  a  gallon  of  liquid  might  fill  six  reputed 
quarts — lay  surrounded  by  the  jagged  points  of  its 
glass  walls.  It  lay  pointed  to  a  spot  in  the 


JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 


heavens  through  which  the  sun  passes  twice  a  year  in 
spring  and  autumn.  For  ten  years  this  exhibit  stayed 
undisturbed,  the  lens-like  top  of  the  cone  converging 
the  daylight  into  a  small  focus  on  the  earth  beneath  it. 
The  oat  half  buried  there  sprouted  into  the  dome  and 
died  for  lack  of  room.  As  the  years  went  by  the 
winds  sifted  bits  of  broken  straw  and  silky  down  from 
plants  into  the  space  beneath  the  lens.  But  when  the 
sun  might  have  shone  directly  through  the  axis  of  the 
bottle  it  happened  that  for  years  either  the  ground  lay 
rain  saturated  or  a  cloud  covered  the  mountain.  When, 
however,  chance  saw  fit  to  use  this  mechanism  for  its 
effect  upon  the  lives  of  several  mortals  it  chose  a  day 
in  early  spring  when  against  the  custom  of  nature  the 
ground  was  dry  and  the  backward  young  blades  of 
the  oats  had  not  yet  topped  the  sere  stalks  of  autumn. 
The  air  was  warm  in  the  sun  and  cool  in  the  shade.  A 
bright  moistureless  wind  blew  out  of  the  north  and 
huddled  the  tinder  under  the  lens,  through  which,  at 
a  certain  moment  in  the  afternoon,  the  sun's  rays, 
with  a  minimum  of  diffusion,  shone  gathered  in  a 
spot  of  white  heat.  The  tinder  turned  black.  A  jack- 
rabbit  bounded  from  the  smell  of  smoke,  his  tall  ears 
cocked.  A  thin  red  line  crackled  in  a  widening  circle 
and  made  the  ground-owl  hide  in  his  borrowed  hole. 
Soon  the  oak  stood  unrelieved  in  a  space  of  black,  with 
a  crisp  fringe  of  straw-color  about  its  lower  branches. 
The  bays  shot  up  like  flaming  swords,  roaring  and 
pouring  pungent  smoke  at  an  angle  through  the  flaw- 


SOME    FLAMES    AND    A    FLAME  3 

less  air  to  southward.  But  the  scrub  oaks  and  the  cas- 
cara,  less  oily  and  full  of  watery  sap,  refused  passage 
to  the  flame.  The  time  was  not  yet  when  the  long  dry 
heat  of  the  rainless  season  made  them  easy  prey.  The 
fire  died  away  beyond  the  bays.  It  left  a  wide,  irregu- 
lar patch  of  charred  remains  on  the  abused  slope,  wait- 
ing for  the  rains  to  bring  it  quickly  back  to  verdure. 

A  young  man  on  a  trail  higher  than  this  had  caught 
the  sight  of  the  smoke  and  had  rushed  across  a  rough 
stretch  of  stones  dotted  with  cypress  for  a  better  view. 
His  anxious  thought  had  been  for  the  ancient  redwoods 
down  in  the  canons. 

Now  he  was  on  his  back  beneath  a  wind-blown 
cypress.  He  had  not  gone  far  from  the  trail.  There 
was  a  red  abrasion  on  his  temple  and  he  lay  white 
and  still. 

He  wore  fawn-colored  corduroy  trousers  folded  into 
boots  that  came  half  way  to  his  knees.  In  a  girl  of 
twenty,  wondering  whether  he  would  ever  speak  again, 
this  first  encounter  with  him  must  have  aroused  a 
certain  respect  and  touched  a  sympathetic  chord  of 
youth.  She  noticed  the  shapeliness  of  his  hands, 
which  began  to  twitch  and  enliven  her  hopes.  For 
him  indefinite  forms  were  beginning  to  shift  before 
his  closed  eyes.  A  web  was  drawing  across  his  con- 
sciousness, passing  with  points  of  light  and  spaces 
of  darkness,  to  the  hard  pumping  of  his  arteries.  He 
made  a  sound  of  bodily  and  of  mental  distress.  The 
elements  of  sky  and  stone  and  foliage  entered  con- 


JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 


fusedly  into  his  parted  lids.  The  faint  scent  of  all  the 
sun-warmed  weeds  crept  into  his  senses ;  the  line  of  the 
distant  ridge  and  its  points  of  solitary  upstanding 
trees  arranged  themselves  with  greater  sharpness.  But 
his  eyes  stayed  dim  as  to  the  space  immediately  before 
him,  where  lines  and  tones  were  intercepted  by  a  khaki- 
colored  patch,  brighter  than  the  dried  grass,  yet  with- 
out the  form  and  texture  of  landscape.  It  rose 
inexplicably  out  of  the  same  resilient  manzanita  that 
supported  his  own  head ;  it  curved  in  agreeable  sym- 
metry to  a  narrower,  darker  band,  then  curved  out 
again  in  vaguer  folds  that  suggested  something  round 
and  definite  within.  These  folds  were  not  motionless, 
but  regularly  rose  and  fell.  A  crimson  kerchief  was 
above  the  moving  space.  A  bush-tit  twittered  in  the 
silence  of  the  cypress  branches  and  caused  him  to  look 
up  into  a  pair  of  questioning  blue  eyes. 

They  were  restful,  like  some  deep  unruffled  pool 
reflecting  the  sky.  He  was  dully  willing  to  be  refreshed 
by  them.  The  air  had  become  motionless ;  the  girl  was 
kneeling  and  the  disk  of  the  low  sun  was  behind  her 
head,  glistening  through  the  edges  of  her  hair.  Some- 
thing echoed  in  his  ears :  a  voice.  It  was  a  voice  full, 
even,  cool  like  the  air  after  a  rain.  He  could  not 
recall  the  words;  they  did  not  matter.  She  must 
have  spoken  long  ago. 

"  Yes,"  he  heard  himself  say.  Her  lashes  widened 
and  showed  the  clear  white  spaces  above  the  irises. 
She  leaned  back  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 


SOME    FLAMES    AND    A    FLAME  5 

"  Thank  you!  "  he  was  moved  to  say  to  this.  Then 
her  lips  parted  and  her  eyelids  rose  again  at  the  sight 
of  his  black  anger  overs  weeping  him.  "  I  was  knocked 
down !  "  he  dug  his  palm  into  the  gravel.  "  The  fellow 
hid  his  face  behind  his  hat.  I  had  no  suspicion! 
Where  is  he?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "  I've  been  here  a  long 
time,"  she  said.  Her  look  of  uncertainty  lingered; 
she  was  not  unlike  a  doe,  fascinated  by  some  new 
object  that  disturbed  her.  But  to  him,  who  sank  back 
suffering  the  vivider  memory  of  his  ambushment,  only 
her  voice  became  a  distant  quantity  to  his  retreating 
consciousness.  The  cypress  whirled  in  the  sky  and  his 
elbow  yielded  to  his  weight.  He  felt  a  canteen  at  his 
lips  while  her  ringers  held  his  head.  The  brandy  tore 
his  throat. 

"  A  man  ought  to  slink  like  a  beast,  expecting  to  be 
murdered,"  he  panted.  "  You  don't  know  where  he 
went?" 

She  held  his  shoulder  down.  "  You  must  lie  still," 
she  said.  She  sat  staring  at  him,  as  before.  He  let 
her  voice  take  possession  of  his  will,  while  he  returned 
her  gaze.  His  heart  began  to  regain  some  rhythm; 
his  harsher  emotions  began  to  melt  in  his  pleasure 
at  the  young  perfection  of  her  skin,  her  teeth,  her 
hair. 

"  I  don't  object  to  lying  still,"  he  faintly  said. 

Her  gaze  did  not  falter;  but  she  turned  away  to 
the  ridge  beyond  the  canon,  without  having  matched 


6  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

his  smile.  Her  head  was  bare ;  her  sleeves  were  rolled 
to  the  elbow;  her  skin  was  translucently  browned. 
He  noticed  these  things  while  his  anger  reverberated 
at  the  back  of  his  thoughts.  She  was  not  taking  him 
for  granted.  He  wondered  why. 

"  Do  you  love  this  mountain  ?  "  he  said.  "  Does 
it  mean  a  great  lot  of  things  to  you  ?  "  She  came  back 
from  the  skyline,  her  cool  face  brightening. 

"  Why  doesn't  it  to  you  ?  "  she  said. 

"But  it  does!"  he  marveled.  "It's  my  mother. 
It's  my  place  of  refuge  from  all  the  unpleasantness 
in  the  world — or,  I  thought  it  was  until — "  he  bolted 
up :  "  if  you  don't  mind  my  saying  that  you  are  a 
compensation  for  being  sandbagged  ?  "  he  said  gravely. 
Her  mouth  stirred,  but  she  made  no  acknowledgment. 

"  Have  you  a  mother,"  she  said,  "  who  isn't  a  moun- 
tain of  refuge  ?  " 

Kendry  shook  his  head. 

"  She's  dead,"  he  said.    "  Is  yours  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  likewise,  while  they  gazed  un- 
abashedly at  each  other.  "  Why  do  you  think  I  don't 
love  the  mountain  ?  "  he  demanded. 

She  flushed,  but  came  back  at  him  with  directness. 
"  I  didn't  suppose,"  she  said,  "  that  private  detectives 
came  from  preference  to  places  like  this." 

"  Private  detectives ! "  He  started  up  with  a  sud- 
denness that  made  his  head  spin.  "  Oho !  You  think 
I'm  a  private  detective  ?  "  Her  look  wavered,  then 
returned  accusatively.  "  Extraordinary !  "  he  frowned, 


SOME    FLAMES    AND    A    FLAME  7 

with  his  hand  to  his  brow.  "  I  didn't  dream  that  I 
resembled  one's  idea  of  a  private  detective." 

"  They  generally  try  not  to,  don't  they  ?  "  she  said, 
without  altering. 

She  saw  his  amazement  cloud  with  returning  faint- 
ness.  He  sank  back  and  she  came  with  the  canteen. 

"  Not  a  detective !  "  he  murmured,  face  down.  He 
was  long  silent;  the  brandy  seemed  in  vain.  He  lay 
motionless  while  she  looked  upon  him,  undecided, 
unsatisfied,  yet  compassionate  and,  presently,  with  a 
sudden  pallor.  The  blue  ether  was  too  brilliantly 
lighted;  the  broken  stones,  half  fresh,  half  oxidized, 
were  too  vivid  green  and  pink  in  the  slant  beyond 
them;  the  dash  and  dip  of  the  birds  from  bough  to 
canon,  the  savor  of  the  living  trees — all  were  little  in 
keeping  with  his  ashen  face.  She  thought  his  heart 
had  stopped  beating.  Her  look  went  over  the  bright 
unpeopled  surface  of  the  land.  She  yielded  to  the 
moment,  without  thinking.  He  saw  her  eyes  through 
her  tears.  He  closed  his  own  again. 

"  You  must  eat  something,"  she  said,  clearing  her 
throat.  "  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that."  Yet 
again,  while  he  dutifully  ate  her  bread  and  cheese, 
a  better  color  began  to  warm  him,  he  vaguely  felt  her 
bearing  alter,  through  something  more  than  a  girl's 
constraint  in  a  chance  acquaintanceship,  to  a  deeper 
distrust  of  him. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  am,  though,"  he  proffered. 
"  Everybody  ought  to  be  willing  to  tell  that.  My  name 


8  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

is  Kendry — John  Kendry.  I  was  born  not  far  from 
this  mountain.  But  I've  lived  away,  off  and  on.  I've 
been  traveling,  trying  to  get  my  perspective.  I  came 
up  here  to  think:  to  hammer  all  my  experiences  into 
some  kind  of  plan  for  a  career.  It's  a  handful !  "  he 
laughed.  His  so  frankly  plunging  in  perhaps  made 
him  seem  to  seek  an  effect  on  her.  "  Of  course,  most 
people  are  forced  along  into  something;  but  I  had  a 
lot  of  money  left  me,  and  that  gave  me  a  free  choice — 
and  that's  the  trouble."  He  mused  on,  as  if  in  a  fair 
way  to  forget  her.  Suddenly  he  sat  up.  "  I  think  I 
have  it !  It's  been  muddling  about  my  head  for  a  long 
time,  and  that  fellow's  knocked  it  into  shape." 

She  did  not  ask  the  question  that  would  have  proved 
her  interest  and  her  acceptance  of  this  confidence.  She 
leaned  against  the  low  bough  of  the  cypress,  her  head 
obscured  in  its  foliage.  He  stared  at  the  lines  of  her 
waist  flowing  in  their  natural  course  without  the  lac- 
ing that  solicits  the  idea  of  femininity  and  diminishes 
its  purer  charm.  The  fact  stood  to  him  for  a  point 
of  view  flattering  to  his  own.  He  clasped  his  hands 
more  comfortably  behind  his  head,  with  a  lock  of  hair 
pulled  down  over  his  wound. 

"  Over  there,"  he  waved  toward  the  city,  "  most  of 
the  people  I  know  are  trying  to  get  richer.  Not  so 
much  for  the  money,  but  because  it's  the  only  game 
they  know — the  only  one  they  think  there  is.  They  are 
like  ants:  they  are  dreadfully  busy  and  organized; 
but  they  haven't  the  least  idea  as  to  what  it's  all 


SOME    FLAMES    AND    A    FLAME  9 

about;  they  are  too  satisfied  to  be  able  to  evolve.  For 
myself,  I  .want  to  move  in  more  dimensions.  I  want  to 
be  a  conscious  evolver — does  that  sound  wordy  ?  "  he 
smiled. 

The  girl  was  seated  on  the  bough ;  she  gravely  shook 
her  head  from  her  receptive  silence.  His  audience 
pleased  him ;  he  resumed  with  gravity : 

"  Of  course  I  shall  go  through  most  of  my  father's 
experiences  in  life;  but  at  least  in  one  dimension,  I 
want  to  begin  where  he  left  off.  I  want  to  take  some- 
thing he  brought  to  me  and  carry  it  forward  and 
deliver  it  in  improved  condition  to  some  other  chap 
by  the  same  family  name.  That  ought  to  be  good 
sport — a  sort  of  egg  and  spoon  race,"  he  interrupted 
irreverently,  "  with  an  evergreen  egg.  That  over 
there,"  he  waved  to  the  city,  "  strikes  me  as  I  think 
it  must  strike  the  mountain.  If  you  sat  here  a  thou- 
sand years  and  saw  the  web  of  time  drawn  by  you'd 
begin  to  distinguish  between  the  woof  and  the  warp. 
All  these  ants,  that  scuttle  horizontally  from  one  edge 
of  the  web  to  the  other,  with  a  visible  beginning  and 
end — they'd  be  woofs;  and  all  the  people  with  devel- 
oped souls  and  with  the  wish  and  capacity  for  growing 
toward  infinity — they'd  be  warps.  Is  this  getting  too 
thick  for  your  taste  ?  "  he  sympathetically  paused. 

Her  eyes  widened ;  she  shook  her  head.  "  Well," 
said  Kendry,  with  an  agreeable  sigh,  "  I  don't  think 
there's  any  fun  in  being  a  woof;  and  I  do  think  it 
would  be  immense  to  be  a  warp." 


10  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

He  made  it  a  period  for  her.  She  was  leisurely; 
her  foot  swung  once. 

"  How  shall  you  be  a  warp  ? "  she  said.  He 
pondered. 

"  You  see,  a  lady  warp  is  born ;  she  simply  grows. 
But  a  man  warp  has  to  make  himself ;  he  has  to  prove 
to  himself  that  he  is  a  warp — and  that's  the  trouble. 
I  told  my  idea  to  an  old  miser  yesterday.  He's  a  son 
of  the  wild  hyena — the  kind  that's  born  starving  and 
eats  off  his  brother's  tail  and  gets  to  be  the  Grand 
Plutocrat.  He  grew  quite  tender  with  me :  said  I  was 
perhaps  just  recovering  from  the  measles.  He  asked 
me  what  I  was  going  to  do  about  it.  He's  a  woof !  " 
Kendry  offered  for  her  confirmation.  Her  foot  swung 
slowly  twice  again. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  she  suffered  herself 
to  say.  Now  he  got  her  profile  sharply  cut  against  the 
northern  tones  of  the  sky.  He  studied  her  for  a 
moment. 

"  Something  big,"  he  was  easily  able  to  say,  with 
his  eyes  on  her.  "  I  may  get  myself  into  a  position 
of  trust  with  the  people — a  position  where  I  can  sell 
them  out  for  millions — and  then  stay  honest  instead. 
Or  I  may  go  gunning  after  the  criminal  rich.  To  my 
mind  that's  the  truest  sport  there  is,  for  a  gentle- 
man living  under  a  republic.  It's  much  more  difficult 
and  dangerous  than  tigers.  Anyway,  I'm  going  to  do 
something  big,"  he  glowed,  with  youth's  vagueness. 
"  Instead  of  being  a  rich  hand  to  mouth  woof  I  am 


SOME    FLAMES    AND    A    FLAME          11 

going  to  live  with  the  constant  knowledge  of  being 
a  conscious  part  of  the — the  whole  Continuous  Per- 
formance," he  waved  at  the  sky  and  waters,  with  a 
grin. 

He  waited  her  verdict  while  she  gazed  thoughtfully 
across  his  shoulder  at  the  sharp  shadows  of  the  rocks. 

"  How  shall  you  begin?  " 

"That's  what  the  wild  hyena  said,"  Kendry 
nodded.  "  Couldn't  answer  him  yesterday,  but  I  can 
now.  Yesterday  I  hadn't  been  thumped  in  the  noddle 
by  this  other  woof,"  he  waved  at  the  hidden  places 
of  the  woods.  "  And  I  hadn't  been  put  together 
again  by  a  very  kind  queen  of  warps,"  he  added 
mischievously. 

She  flushed  and  made  herself  look  up  at  the  tree 
top.  Kendry  turned  to  where  he  imagined  his  assail- 
ant had  fled.  "  I'd  like  to  meet  that  woof  again, 
though,"  he  hardened,  with  a  distending  of  the  veins 
of  his  forehead.  The  girl  responded  more  quickly. 

*  You'd  recognize  him  if  you  saw  him  ?  " 

"  I  can  put  him  in  his  class  without  recognizing 
him,"  said  Kendry.  "  He  works  for  the  wild  hyena, 
but  he  doesn't  know  it.  He's  the  saloon  element ;  he's 
the  floating  vote,  the  jail,  the  morgue,  the  scareheads 
in  the  newspapers.  He's  the  enemy,  he's  the  hope  of 
the  monarchs  who  want  to  see  us  handed  over  to  the 
Grand  Plutocrat.  That  dates  back  to  my  last  thesis 
at  college — don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Kendry.  "  But 
it's  true.  Of  course  he's  the  chap  to  round  out  my 


12  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

idea.  I  ought  to  thank  him;  but  I  shall  not,"  he 
appealed  to  her  ominously. 

The  girl  was  avoiding  him.  What  might  be  a 
return  of  her  first  suspicion  brought  her  eyelids  nearer 
together.  He  wondered  if  he  had  grown  tiresome. 

"  If  you  think  my  mind  is  wandering,"  he  said,  "  it 
all  comes  to  this :  The  acts  of  a  warp  must  tend  to 
improve  himself  by  giving  a  lift  to  civilization;  and 
my  new  inspiration  is  that  I  will  begin  at  once,  like 
a  force  of  nature,  on  the  very  nearest  thing  that  needs 
me,  even  if  it's  you,"  he  irresponsibly  interjected. 
She  brought  her  shoulder  blades  a  little  together  and 
surveyed  him  neutrally.  "  But  of  course  not  unless 
you  were  pursued  by  an  evil  woof,"  he  hastened. 
"  That's  the  whole  story,"  he  smiled. 

For  this  he  received  something  steadier  than  a  casual 
glance,  followed  by  the  girl's  resuming  her  contempla- 
tion of  the  green  depths  of  the  canon.  He  became 
aware  that  for  some  reason  he  was  no  longer  succeed- 
ing with  her.  He  noticed  the  fineness  of  her  nose,  of 
the  poise  of  her  head.  Her  hair  was  the  color  of  sun- 
light through  rich  amber.  Only  the  satisfaction  of 
examining  her  while  she  gave  him  this  full  opportunity 
sufficed  for  the  touch  she  was  laying  on  his  pride. 
"  I'm  deeply  obliged  for  the  brandy,"  he  said  pleas- 
antly, his  voice  drawing  off  a  shade.  She  rather 
penetratingly  eyed  him  for  a  moment;  but  she  did 
not  answer.  He  pulled  himself  up  on  his  stiffened 
legs. 


SOME    FLAMES   AND    A    FLAME          13 


"  I  am  really  keeping  you,"  he  remembered.  "  I'm 
quite  able  to  go  on  to  the  summit."  He  willingly  sat 
back  on  a  rock,  while  he  tried  to  look  vigorous.  "  Do 
you  go  my  way?  " 

"  When  you  are  stronger."  She  calmly  surveyed 
him.  She  kept  her  seat  and  returned  her  attention  to 
the  seaward  ridge.  It  was  early  in  the  season  for  a 
sea  fog;  but  the  white  bank  had  begun  to  peep  from 
behind,  preparing  for  an  assault  upon  the  evening 
slopes  to  landward.  To  landward  all  was  smiling  and 
clear ;  but  from  the  west  the  mist  would  soon  begin  to 
spill  down  over  the  summits  of  the  first  canon  and  up 
the  slope  where  Kendry  waited.  The  sun  approached 
the  edge  of  the  fog's  cottony  border.  It  shone  directly 
behind  her  head  once  more,  giving  metallic  luster  to 
the  threads  of  her  hair  and  recalling  the  moment  when 
first  she  had  loomed  upon  his  senses.  The  birds  were 
flying  in  straighter,  wider  courses.  The  two  human 
shadows  lengthened  in  altered  hues  over  the  stones. 
The  young  woman  who  chose  to  be  so  uncommunica- 
tive still  seemed  willing  that  the  mist  should  hide 
them  together  on  a  lonely  mountainside.  They  were 
two  hours'  walk  from  a  habitation.  His  own  silence, 
his  increasing  mystification,  did  not  disturb  her; 
nor  did  the  sight  of  the  sun  dipping  into  the  crimsoned 
fog. 

He  buttoned  his  coat  against  the  rapid  cooling  of  the 
air.  It  was  a  moment  comfortably  to  dwell  on  the 
other  consideration  of  equal  importance  for  him  with 


14  JOHN    KENDRTS    IDEA 

his  own  career.  Mary  Eastwood  and  her  mother 
would  have  thought  to  find  him  anticipating  their 
arrival  at  the  tavern  on  the  summit.  Such  an  eager- 
ness on  his  part  he  believed  would  have  counted  to 
her  summers  of  seniority  as  a  striking  quality  of  his 
comparative  youth.  She  would  find  that  he  had 
changed  in  the  intervening  two  years.  The  place  in 
his  life  to  which  he  had  assigned  Mary  Eastwood  with- 
out, as  yet,  her  sanction,  she  would  find  preserved  for 
her,  but  adjusted  within  maturer  bounds.  He  would 
come  at  a  man's  gait,  with  reasonable  regard  for  the 
interesting  phenomena  by  the  wayside.  The  girl  whose 
averted  face  took  on  a  wistfulness  in  the  softening  light 
beneath  the  cypress  was  of  capital  interest.  Beneath 
her  the  redwood  spires  on  the  seaward  slopes  were 
sinking  in  the  mist.  The  first  thin  vapors  blew  across 
her  cheek  and  vanished  as  if  her  warm  blood  dispelled 
them.  To  eastward  sky  and  land  and  water  stood 
clear  in  the  evening  light;  to  westward  all  the  forms 
receded  into  thinner  planes  and  vaguer  distances.  The 
fresh  wind  blew  with  a  faint  savor  of  the  ocean, 
sweeping  the  mist  across  the  dulled  stones  and  through 
the  trees. 

"  Could  you  find  your  way  now?  "  she  said,  jump- 
ing down.  "  I  don't  think  you  could,"  she  answered 
for  him.  Immediately  she  led  off  toward  the  beaten 
path. 

In  the  silence  she  seemed  to  suggest,  he  followed, 
dwelling  on  the  straightness,  the  completeness  of  her 


SOME    FLAMES    AND    A    FLAME          15 

figure.  The  gloom  was  beginning  to  make  it  dimmer. 
The  trail  wound  off  through  the  tall  chaparral.  He 
saw  her  snatch  off  occasional  branchlets  and  crumple 
the  leaves  to  her  nostrils,  while  she  kept  the  pace  of 
their  Indian  file  at  something  slower  than  he  thought 
her  wont.  When  they  passed  around  into  the  shadow 
of  a  height  which  he  calculated  was  about  an  hour  and 
a  half  from  the  summit  all  behind  and  below  them  had 
been  swallowed  in  the  mist,  which  was  pierced  by 
tree  tops  and  by  eminences  gradually  sinking.  It 
was  like  some  dissolving  view  of  wooded  isles  and  far 
dim  shores  soon  to  give  place  to  barren  sea.  They 
would  soon  have  left  the  level  stretch  and  started  their 
climb.  The  girl's  movement  was  faster.  She  had  not 
spoken.  Kendry  marveled.  Why  did  she  carry  a  can- 
teen of  brandy?  Why  had  she  so  obviously  awaited 
the  fog  ?  It  was  growing  difficult  to  keep  her  shadowy 
figure  within  sight  around  the  turns  without  running 
into  prickly  foliage  on  either  side. 

"  We  are  going  down,"  he  discovered.  "  Are  we 
on  the  wrong  trail  ?  " 

"  You'd  have  preferred  the  other  ?  "  he  heard  her 
sweetly  say,  over  her  shoulder.  Her  answer  seemed 
reassuring.  Even  should  he  return  to  the  open  spaces 
and  perhaps  to  the  other  trails  they  had  passed  he 
doubted  if  he  could  find  the  one  he  had  counted  on. 
He  tried  to  make  up  the  gap  his  hesitancy  had  widened 
between  them  and  he  was  startled  by  the  speed  of  her 
descent.  Their  direction,  he  began  to  be  certain,  was 


16  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

away  from  the  summit.     The  decline  was  continuous. 
Despite  his  efforts  she  was  drawing  away. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  judge  his  position  by 
the  facts,  throwing  out  his  prejudice  in  favor  of  so 
fresh  and  charming  a  young  woman.  He  might  have 
recalled  one  or  two  chance  alluring  women  in  other 
parts  of  the  world,  to  whose  guidance  he  would  have 
been  too  well  informed  to  trust  himself  in  the  blind 
darkness  of  a  mountainside  where  for  some  unaccount- 
able reason  already  he  had  been  ambushed.  But  stum- 
bling after  her,  his  hands  stretched  out  in  the  darkness 
before  him,  his  feet  sliding  on  the  loose  stones,  he 
reflected  merely  that  she  had  shown  an  inexplicable 
suspicion  of  him.  Now  perhaps  she  wished  to  be  rid 
of  him.  A  rolling  stone  brought  him  down  heavily 
on  his  side  against  the  stock  of  a  scrub  oak.  He  lay 
still  and  could  not  hear  her.  Only  a  dim  difference 
between  the  space  overhead  and  the  walls  of  the  chapar- 
ral indicated  the  direction  of  the  trail.  It  turned 
sharply  a  little  ahead.  Either  she  waited  without 
stirring  or  she  had  gone  too  far  in  advance  to  hear 
him  fall.  The  trail  now  curved  back  toward  his  proper 
destination.  He  groped  along  it,  eyes  and  ears  alert. 
The  shades  and  dim  outlinings  of  the  bushes  took 
strange  forms  that  thinned  to  nothing  at  approach.  The 
big  owl  hooted  from  a  far  tree  top;  all  the  rest  was 
stillness  like  that  of  a  land  covered  with  snow.  The 
fine  particles  of  the  mist  wafted  now  and  then  against 
his  cheek,  as  if  stirred  by  hidden  knowing  agencies. 


SOME    FLAMES    AND    A    FLAME          17 

A  few  feet  on  either  side  his  sight  was  lost  in  the  gray 
tenuous  region  of  uncertainty  into  which  the  girl 
seemed  vanished.  He  moved  softly,  pausing,  a  smile 
upon  his  lips.  A  long  time  appeared  to  elapse.  His 
fingers  pressed  into  the  soft  figure  of  the  girl,  so  that 
he  started  back  and  brought  down  a  shower  of  mois- 
ture upon  them  from  the  shrub  under  which  she  stood. 

"You  were  listening?  You  thought  you  heard 
something?  "  her  voice  came. 

"  No !  "  he  puzzled.  He  distinguished  an  uncer- 
tainty in  her  breathing,  and  then  the  note  of  prepara- 
tion. 

"  You  can't  lose  your  way  on  this  trail,"  she 
pronounced.  "  You'll  be  there  in  two  hours."  Her  in- 
tonation stiffened  for  the  speech  she  had  arranged.  "  I 
shall  never  know  whether  you  are — not  unusually 
clever !  "  she  finished,  with  a  little  laugh,  not  at  ease. 
"Good  night!" 

He  could  not  note  in  the  moment  all  the  wavering 
of  purpose  she  had  flattened  out  of  this  accusing 
speech.  He  heard  her  moving  away.  His  quick  im- 
pulse was  not  to  follow  her,  not  to  answer.  But  he 
heard  her  steps  slowing — nearly  ceasing. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  but  that  I've  been  the  more  genu- 
ine," he  said  gently. 

He  heard  her  pluck  a  leaf  from  a  young  laurel. 

"  I've  left  the  canteen  for  you,"  she  called. 

Rushing  after  her  his  foot  struck  the  canteen,  but 
he  came  against  nothing  more.  Somewhere  he  heard 


18  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

the  bushes  crashing,  on  the  slope  below  the  trail.  But 
he  could  find  no  opening  through  the  stiff  growth 
there.  The  sound  of  the  parted  chaparral  diminished 
and  stopped.  There  was  nothing  to  see  and  nothing 
to  hear. 


CHAPTER    II 

IN   THE  MIST 

NEVERTHELESS  he  held  the  canteen  by  the  strap,  still 
warm  from  her  ringers.  It  was  important  enough  to 
warrant  him  in  seeking  her  out  to  return  it;  it  was 
trivial  enough  to  warrant  the  surprise  she  might  show 
at  his  taking  the  trouble.  It  had  the  quality  of  "  legal  " 
tender  in  the  transactions  of  women  with  men;  that 
is,  it  had  value,  viewed  from  one  side  and  was  worth- 
less when  viewed  from  the  other  side — and  it  was  the 
feminine  prerogative  to  view  it  solely  with  the  side  up 
which  best  suited  an  occasion,  or  to  hold  it  indefinitely 
balanced  on  its  edge.  He  owned  an  instinct  as  to  how 
best  he  could  present  such  tender  at  its  source  for 
redemption.  That  would  be  with  outward  assumption 
of  its  worthlessness  and  with  inward  expectation  of 
receiving  at  least  another  tender  of  equal  ambiguity. 
He  knew  that  if  he  presented  it  with  the  "  good  "  side 
up  it  would  be  turned  over  and  looked  upon  from  the 
other  side. 

It  bade  him  continue  without  further  search  for  her. 
If  he  was  mistaken  and  a  purely  impersonal  compassion 
had  prompted  the  gift  of  the  stimulant,  then  his  pur- 
suit of  her  through  the  bramble,  even  if  he  caught 


20  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

her,  would  yield  his  interest  nothing  more.  If  the  can- 
teen was  a  tender  of  good  will,  some  lapse  of  time 
would  not  diminish  its  significance. 

The  trail  wound  from  the  inner  slopes  of  a  ravine 
to  the  descending  ridge  that  marked  its  outer  edge. 
Here  the  vegetation,  rooted  in  thinner  soil,  was  too  low 
to  add  gloom  to  the  gray  obscurity.  It  gave  a  feeling 
of  open  space  which  he  paused  to  enjoy.  The  mist 
was  even  and  still.  He  thought  it  showed  at  one  point 
a  more  tenuous  quality,  as  if  a  break  in  the  fog  existed 
beyond.  He  stepped  down  off  the  trail  to  satisfy 
himself.  If  there  was  a  light  glimmering  there  it  was 
possible  that  he  was  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  mountain 
where  the  only  houses  he  could  remember  lay  scat- 
tered at  its  base ;  in  which  case  the  girl  had  started  him, 
not  toward  the  summit,  but  toward  the  sea.  Yet, 
on  the  south  side  he  should  have  heard  the  fog-horn 
moaning  at  the  Gate  and  the  warning  signals  of  the 
ferryboats.  Nothing  broke  the  silence ;  but  the  lumin- 
osity increased  as  he  went  farther  down.  It  might  be 
from  a  candle  or  from  a  conflagration,  so  much  the 
particles  of  the  mist  diffused  the  light.  He  more  cau- 
tiously picked  his  way  over  barren  intervals  of  shale, 
avoiding  the  crushing  of  the  shrubs.  A  faint  resinous 
odor  began  to  be  carried  on  the  air.  The  light  took 
on  a  yellow  tinge  and  the  dim  shadows  of  redwoods 
rose  into  the  line  of  his  softly  descending  vision.  The 
shadows  enlarged  and  deepened.  The  crackle  of  a  fire 
came  to  his  ears,  along  with  a  voice. 


IN    THE   MIST  21 

It  was  a  man's  voice,  familiar  not  because  it  be- 
longed to  an  individual,  but  because  it  belonged  to  a 
type  of  the  multitude.  It  carried  him  back  to  the 
moment  when,  with  his  ears  attuned  to  foreign  ways 
and  foreign  accents,  he  had  stepped  down  the  gang- 
plank at  New  York  into  the  longing  arms  of  porters 
and  cabmen.  Perhaps  the  voice  best  would  be  de- 
scribed by  saying  that  many  of  his  countrymen  would 
not  have  understood  what  was  being  said  by  any  one 
who  attempted  to  describe  it ;  for  it  was  a  voice  with- 
out self-consciousness  or  self-knowledge — perhaps  the 
only  thing  left  without  those  attributes  in  a  land 
where  every  one  so  closely  examines  himself  with  a 
view  to  betterment.  It  was  in  this  case  differentiated 
by  a  grieved  insistence,  an  injured  argumentativeness ; 
but  it  still  told  him  nothing  within  wide  limits, 
of  the  breeding,  the  education,  relative  to  the  mass,  of 
its  owner.  Kendry  advanced  to  where  he  could  hear 
the  words.  The  proximity  of  a  man  sent  throbbing  the 
scar  on  his  forehead. 

The  voice  ceased.  Perhaps  Kendry  had  been  heard 
crunching  the  stones.  When  the  hidden  conversation 
resumed  it  was  from  another  voice,  smooth  and  clear 
across  the  silence. 

"  If  you've  done  nothing  against  the  law,  why  do 
you  hide  here  ?  "  said  the  girl. 

"  The  law !  I  was  wishing  I  had  the  Revised  Stat- 
utes to  start  this  blaze  with ! "  the  man  laughed. 
"  You're  '  the  people  ';  you're  easy!  You'd  sit  down 


22  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

under  the  statue  of  Justice  and  get  your  pocket  picked. 
Did  you  ever  notice  that  Justice  was  blind?  Well, 
she's  paralyzed  too.  All  she  can  do  is  to  throw  a  fit 
now  and  then  and  bite  the  man  nearest.  That's  on 
'  page  one  ' !  "  he  finished. 

The  girl  made  no  answer.  "  I  notice  you  didn't 
bring  the  l  nose-paint/ '  he  complained  presently. 
"  That's  how  you  think  of  me !  " 

"  Was  the  brandy  all  you  wanted  me  to  come 
for?" 

"  Oh,  tut !  "  He  rose.  "  I  guess,  after  a  week  on 
this  God-forsaken  hill,  I  wanted  to  see  you !  " 

"  It  isn't  a  God-forsaken  hill,"  said  the  girl.  "  If 
you  wanted  to  see  me,  why  didn't  you  come  to  the 
God-forsaken  town  ?  " 

"  Yes — *  why  didn't '  I !  I  guess  you  could  answer 
that,  if  you  were  sworn  in.  I  did  think  you'd  have  a 
letter,  though,"  he  said  in  disappointment. 

"  If  you  want  to  hear  from  them,"  the  girl  coldly 
said,  "  why  don't  you  go  to  see  them  ?  Why  do  you 
hide?" 

There  was  annoyance  in  his  tone.  "  Why,  now  sup- 
pose your  Law  hauls  off  with  her  sword  at  those  thugs 
and  splits  my  head  open  with  the  back  swing?  They 
haven't  any  case.  But  they  want  to  ask  me  ques- 
tions on  the  witness  stand.  It's  my  reputation 
they're  after.  They  think  they  can  make  me  look 
queer.  I  offered  to  compromise  the  business  end  of  it. 
They  wanted  four  times  as  much." 


IN    THE    MIST  23 


Her  manner  seemed  to  nettle  him.  "  Even  so,  why 
are  you  afraid  to  face  them?" 

"  Because  I'm  making  a  bluff  that's  worth  good 
money !  "  his  voice  strained.  "  You  just  want  to  throw 
it  into  me,  don't  you?  You're  a  big  pretty  kid,  and 
you  know  you  say  what  you  like.  You  think  I'm  run- 
ning. Well,  I'm  not  running  anything  except  a  bluff. 
There's  no  man  on  God's  footstool  that  can  face  me 
down — I  want  to  tell  you  that!  The  woman  that 
ties  up  to  me  is  in  luck,  if  I  do  say  it.  I'm  not  an 
Adonis  and  I'm  not  a  Hercules;  but  that's  not  the 
kind  of  machine  that  keeps  the  road  in  this  century. 
The  woman  that  gets  me  gets  protected.  I'll  cut  a 
swath  through  that  old  town  for  her  to  walk  through 
where  no  man  will  speak  to  her  twice.  That's  the 
kind  I  am ;  and  I  guess  you  know  it !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  breathed.  The  man  paused  as  if  to 
fathom  her  thought. 

"  Yes,  and  you  want  to  say  I'm  a  tough,"  he  com- 
plained. "  I  don't  know  where  you  get  your  ideas. 
You  don't  know  anybody.  I'm  going  to  tell  your 
mother  to  cut  out  some  of  those  novels.  Oh,  well," 
he  veered,  "  I  wouldn't  interfere.  I  guess  you  know 
I'd  scour  the  town  for  you.  But  I  want  to  tell  you 
you're  wrong,  the  way  you  talk  to  me.  You're  sure 
wrong,"  his  tenderness  was  not  unconvincing.  "  Why, 
you  talk  like  a  graduate  of  some  bunco  millionaire's 
Sunday-school.  The  real  Christians  are  all  dead.  They 
took  the  short  end  of  the  bargain,  as  the  Book  told 


24  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

'em  to — centuries  ago.  And  they  trotted  off  to  heaven, 
without  bothering  the  Probate  Court.  That's  evolu- 
tion. Everybody's  got  to  look  to  his  bargain,  and 
everybody  does.  You  never  buy  a  yard  of  ribbon  but 
somebody  gets  the  best  of  the  bargain.  Who  gives 
away  colleges  and  hospitals?  Why  the  fakir  that's 
always  got  the  best  of  his  bargains.  Who  built  the 
Coliseum  ?  Why,  the  chap  who'd  annexed  about  every- 
thing in  sight  and  wanted  to  keep  the  people  busy 
and  fooled !  It's  the  same  thing  now.  Along  comes 
Mr.  Bunco  and  builds  a  spire  to  Learning,  or 
Health,  or  Morals,  or  some  fad.  And  he  tells  you: 
*  Look  up  there  and  admire  that,  while  I  rip  off  your 
scalp  and  take  it  to  my  tannery.'  He's  running  a 
bluff.  So  am  I.  So  is  everybody.  You're  a  woman ; 
I  guess  you  know  that.  I  had  to  study  the  law  to 
find  it  out." 

"  I'm  trying  to  discover,"  she  said  impatiently, 
"  why  you  wanted  me  to  come  here." 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  after  some  hesitation,  "  be- 
cause you'll  have  to  go  and  see  the  Chinaman." 

"Ah,  no!"  she  breathed,  decidedly. 

"  Wait  till  you  savey !  It's  your  business,  Beauty, 
just  as  much  as  mine,"  he  said,  satisfied  that  he  could 
convince  her.  "  I  can't  help  knowing  certain  things 
I  know;  but  I  can  help  telling  'em — and  I've  got  to. 
I  wouldn't  even  tell  you ;  and  if  I  did,  you'd  misunder- 
stand. If  they  get  a  judgment  by  default  they'll  open 
my  safe  deposit  drawer.  They'll  find  nothing  there. 


IN    THE    MIST  25 

But  if  they  search  my  room,  they'll  find  all  I've  got  and 
all  you've  got  too." 

"  But  they  can't  take  what  belongs  to  my  mother 
and  me." 

!<  There  isn't  a  scrap  of  paper  in  the  world  to  prove 
they  are  yours.  I  couldn't  see  a  mix-up  like  this  com- 
ing," he  said  in  his  injured  tone.  "  You'll  have  to 
go  and  do  your  best  to  compromise  with  them,  or  you 
stand  to  lose." 

He  tossed  a  stick  into  the  blaze.  The  sparks  shot 
up  into  the  foliage;  the  firelight  gave  a  bluish  cast  to 
the  green. 

"  In  your  room,"  she  said,  "  where  did  you  hide  our 
things?" 

"  So's  you  can  go  there  and  have  them  follow  and 
snatch  it  out  of  your  hands?  That  fellow  you  turned 
away  from  your  door  for  me — who  do  you  suppose  he 
was?  Who  was  it  nosing  after  me  on  the  mountain 
to-day?  They've  got  me  located;  I  shift  out  of  this 
region  before  daylight.  No;  you'll  have  to  go  to 
Chinatown;  and  take  my  advice,  go  looking  as  hand- 
some as  you  know  how.  If  anybody  says  anything 
to  you,  you're  a  tourist  from  the  East." 

Kendry  heard  the  girl  rise.  Her  voice,  long  coming, 
faltered  as  though  from  a  child  disposed  to  weep. 

"  I'm  going  home  now,"  she  said. 

"  Better  sit  down  till  I  tell  you  how  to  talk  to  those 
people,"  he  said,  with  some  doubt  as  to  her  intentions. 
Her  feet  pressed  the  dry  brush. 


26  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

11 1  shall  not  go  to  them,"  she  said,  with  a  breath. 
"  I  shall  consider  the  money  as  lost.  I  shall  not  say 
anything  I  know — up  till  now — if  I  do  know  anything 
against  you.  But  after  to-night  you  mustn't  count  on 
me.  I  shall  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  it,"  she 
came  out. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool !  "  he  cried.  He  was  exasperated, 
but  still  unconvinced.  "  Your  mother  would  under- 
stand it;  she'd  take  it  from  me  that  this  is  what  to 
do — why  can't  you?  Why  can't  you  realize  that 
you'll  be  losing  every  cent  you've  got !  "  He  rose. 

"  It  wasn't  much,"  she  said,  with  a  softness  that 
heightened  his  anger.  "  There's  never  a  loss  without 
some  gain.  I'm  strong.  It  wasn't  enough  to  pay," 
she  dwelt  on  the  word,  "  for  the  pretense,  the  false- 
hood, the  slinking  I've  had  to  use  to  get  here  to-night. 
Oh,  you  can't  budge  me !  I'm  not  so  solitary  in  my 
way  of  thinking  about  this  world.  Mother's  too  old; 
she's  too  weak-willed.  I'm  going!  " 

Kendry  saw  the  man's  shadow  darken  the  firelight. 

"  By  God,  you're  not  going!  "  he  said.  "  This  don't 
fool  me.  Some  one's  been  afoul  of  your  mind.  You've 
had  it  in  for  me  for  months.  Now,  when  you  think 
I  can't  come  back  to  town,  you're  going  to  give  me  the 
merry  laugh !  Well,  I  will  be  back  in  town ;  when  I 
go,  you'll  go  with  me.  I  don't  trust  you.  Sit  down !  " 

Kendry's  knees  trembled. 

"  Arthur !  "    He  heard  her  struggle.    "  Arthur !  " 

The  scuffle  ceased  at  the  sound  of  Kendry  breaking 


IN    THE    MIST  27 

through  the  brush.  The  brush  grew  denser  toward 
the  bottom  of  the  ravine ;  a  fire  had  once  destroyed  the 
greater  redwoods  and  a  thick  growth  of  young  ones 
seemed  to  encircle  the  fireplace  without  a  break. 

"Hello  there?"  he  called.  There  was  no  answer. 
He  discovered  a  thin,  dry  water  course,  closely  bor- 
dered by  the  saplings,  leading  through.  He  stumbled 
over  its  rounded  stones  and  came  into  the  lighted 
circle. 

The  girl  had  identified  him.  She  stood  across  the 
space,  pale  and  avoiding  his  glance.  The  man  stepped 
out  from  behind  her.  He  was  in  the  early  thirties. 
He  wore  a  stiff  hat  jammed  over  his  forehead  and 
carried  a  cigar  crowded  into  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 
He  sauntered  toward  Kendry  with  his  hands  in  his  side 
pockets  and  his  not  large  eyes  looking  closely  past 
a  nose  that  rose  too  rapidly  at  the  base  and  finished  too 
trivially  at  the  tip.  An  aggressive  and  intelligent 
alertness  were  set  upon  his  face  as  if  in  defiance  to  a 
hostile  and  contemptible  world.  Kendry  looked  down 
an  inch  upon  this  older  head  so  forwardly  carried  on 
the  shoulders.  A  cynical  self-confidence  drew  up  one 
corner  of  the  man's  mouth. 

"  My  name's  Paulter,"  it  said,  as  Kendry  might  be 
hesitating  to  ask.  "  What  do  you  want?  "  He  stood 
revolving  the  cigar  in  his  lips.  Kendry  subdued  his 
instinct  to  an  apologetic  smile. 

"  I've  walked  off  the  trail  in  the  fog,"  he  said.  "  You 
won't  mind  my  drying  off  a  bit  ?  "  He  saluted  the 


28  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

girl,  then  thought  best  to  seem  to  ignore  her.  Paul- 
ter  gave  no  response  to  his  smile.  He  stood  motion- 
less, keeping  one  hand  in  his  pocket.  He  looked  at 
Kendry's  scar. 

"  What  brings  you  around  here  ?  "  he  said,  as  if  he 
expected  a  falsehood  in  answer. 

"Just  the  walk,"  said  Kendry.  To  affect  to  find 
nothing  threatening  in  Paulter's  manner  he  put  down 
the  canteen  and  took  off  his  coat  and  held  it  to  the 
heat.  He  felt  Paulter's  eyes  traveling  the  outlines  of 
his  pockets.  Nothing  like  a  weapon  was  in  evidence 
there.  Paulter  thoughtfully  chewed  his  cigar.  Per- 
haps something  in  Kendry's  way  of  speech  made  him 
seem  from  too  foreign  a  place  to  warrant  suspicion. 
The  cigar  came  from  the  mouth  to  the  hand  that  had 
stayed  so  closely  in  the  pocket ;  something  like  a  smile 
flickered  over  the  irregular  mouth.  Suddenly  the 
cigar  shot  back  again.  Paulter  stepped  offensively 
near  him. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  canteen  ?  "  he  said.  It 
was  the  tone  of  a  man  who  gave  no  one  the  benefit  of 
a  doubt.  An  unpleasant  heat  rose  at  the  back  of 
Kendry's  head;  his  fingers  closed  on  the  coat.  From 
the  corner  of  his  eye  he  dimly  saw  the  girl  turned 
toward  him.  He  smiled. 

"  Stumbled  on  it,"  he  said.  "  If  it's  yours,  you'll 
miss  some  of  the  brandy,"  he  shrugged,  good- 
naturedly. 

He  held  the  coat  at  arm's  length  toward  the  fire  and 


IN    THE   MIST  29 

continued  his  gaze  genially,  but  as  steadily  as  he  could, 
into  Paulter's  eye.  He  had  come  on  the  girl's  account 
and  he  was  under  necessity  of  peace,  even  had  his  taste 
been  in  the  least  for  brawling.  He  knew  that  a  point 
might  be  reached  where  his  pretense  of  not  noticing 
the  other's  malevolence  would  become  so  transparent 
as  to  defeat  its  own  end.  He  had  passed  through  one 
encounter  where  the  memory  of  his  own  inertness 
oppressed  him ;  now  he  was  suffering  a  similar  stress. 
To  have  to  turn  on  the  man  who  awaited  his  least 
movement,  and  who  too  certainly  concealed  a  pistol, 
would  bring  the  situation  to  no  better  pass  than  it 
was  when  he  had  attempted  to  better  it,  apart  from  his 
regard  for  his  own  life.  But  to  smile  was  to  pull  up 
a  weight  from  his  vitals  by  a  thread.  It  brought  up  a 
sigh  along  with  it;  the  sound  disconcerted  him — it 
seemed  to  suggest  anxiety  or  fear.  While  he  main- 
tained his  gaze  on  Paulter  he  wondered  if  it  was  fear. 
He  knew  he  was  not  calm.  He  had  never  laid  hands 
on  a  man  in  anger.  His  willing  understanding  had, 
so  far,  borne  him  over  places  where  mere  calculative 
tact  might  have  failed.  He  had  now  to  learn  how  much 
more  depressing  it  is  to  consume  in  the  blood  the 
venom  which  rage  produces  than  to  turn  this  venom 
into  violence.  His  falsehood  about  the  canteen,  made 
without  a  glance  at  the  girl,  advisable  though  he  felt 
it,  sickened  him  with  a  sense  of  its  moral  disadvantage. 
Paulter's  rapid  looks  from  Kendry  to  her  and  back 
again  seemed  penetrating  the  history  of  their  after- 


30  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

noon  and  coloring  it  with  the  man's  own  cynical  sur- 
misals.  Her  flush  had  paled.  She  faced  Paulter  with- 
out faltering,  yet  without  breathing.  Kendry's  mouth 
began  to  dry.  He  saw  her  sink  with  uneven  respira- 
tion to  a  fallen  tree  trunk.  The  relief  of  a  muscular 
movement  offered  itself  to  him. 

"  Won't  you  put  on  my  coat?  "  he  asked  her. 

Paulter  was  gruffly  before  him.  "  You  keep  your 
coat,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder.  He  took  off  his  own 
and  transferred  the  automatic  pistol  from  it,  with  a 
full  glance  at  Kendry.  Paulter  was  not  clad  for  the 
wilds ;  brushed  and  smoothed  to  the  prosperous  appear- 
ance in  which  he  had  reached  the  mountain,  he  would 
have  passed  in  some  drawing-rooms — until  he  should 
speak — for  one  of  their  admissible  but  less-inspiring 
quantities.  It  was  peculiar  to  American  life  that  he 
was  inferior  to  his  clothes  and  superior  to  his  manner 
of  speech.  Paulter  threw  his  coat  over  the  girl's  knees. 
Kendry  had  decided  that  the  man  had  gone  too  far 
in  contempt  of  him. 

"  Both  of  them,"  he  smiled,  following  Paulter's 
coat  with  a  proffer  of  his  own.  He  moved  away  from 
the  two,  acknowledging  the  girl's  faint  thanks.  He 
heard  Paulter  in  pursuit  of  him.  This  was  the  man, 
he  could  not  doubt,  to  whom  he  owed  the  wound  that 
smarted  anew  upon  his  forehead.  Kendry  tightened 
his  teeth  on  the  necessity,  the  apparent  impossibility, 
of  finding  what  should  avert  a  speech,  an  act  more 
insolent  than  could  be  answered  save  with  his  fists. 


IN    THE    MIST  31 


The  mouth  which  so  suggested  a  blow  leaned  over  to 
him  tonelessly: 

"  You  want  to  know  what  I  think  about  that  can- 
teen?" 

The  question  gave  time  for  an  answer.  Paulter's 
coolness,  perhaps  overbuilt  on  Kendry's  long-suffer- 
ing, added  to  the  probable  ease  of  knocking  him  into 
the  fire.  The  girl's  fingers  were  gripping  the  bark  of 
the  fallen  redwood,  her  eyes  widened  in  a  message 
Kendry  could  not  gather.  He  wavered;  he  heard  a 
call  from  out  the  fog. 

It  was  an  Oriental  voice,  pronouncing  Paulter's 
name  with  assurance.  Paulter  had  defensively  started 
to  put  Kendry  between  it  and  himself,  but  he  stopped. 
A  canny  speculativeness  entered  his  eyes ;  but  he  made 
his  answer  sound  indifferent. 

"  Nothing  to  stop  you  from  coming  down,"  he  said. 
There  was  the  rustle  of  two  men  pushing  their  way 
down  through  the  chaparral.  For  the  moment  the 
situation  was  relieved  for  Kendry,  whether  or  not  the 
odds  were  now  to  become  three  to  one  against  him. 
Nothing  from  the  girl  illuminated  that  point.  Paul- 
ter's coat  slipped  from  her  knee.  She  left  the  log  and 
stood  looking  down  into  the  fire.  The  small  move- 
ments of  her  nostrils  could  not  conceal  the  stirring  of 
something  new  within  her.  It  might  have  been  by  a 
natural  inadvertence  that  she  had  folded  Kendry's 
coat  under  her  arm.  Paulter  had  not  noticed  it.  He 
waited  at  the  edge  of  the  circle,  listening  conjecturally 


32  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

toward  the  oncomers,  his  mouth  unevenly  drawn,  his 
back  half  turned  to  the  girl.  Kendry  sought  some 
sign  from  her. 

The  coals  were  pinkening  her  cheeks  and  enforcing 
the  blue  of  her  irises.  The  smoke  was  going  straight 
into  the  misty  stillness  whose  particles  took  the 
shadow.  The  fire  lay  in  the  bed  of  what  in  winter 
would  be  a  pool,  bottomed  with  gravel,  receiving 
waters  due  for  the  lake  a  thousand  feet  below.  The 
taller  redwoods  overhung  in  darknesses  outlined  by 
feathery  branching  curves.  Against  the  thought  of 
Paulter  and  his  emanations  stood  the  slim  soft  figure 
of  the  girl,  with  the  blood  beating  in  her  cheek.  There 
was  nothing  of  hysteria  there,  consuming  though  she 
might  be.  There  was  an  increasing  set  of  the  teeth, 
a  movement  of  the  eye  through  the  smallest  arc  of  a 
circle  at  the  nearing  of  the  others.  If  they  were  still 
more  to  threaten  her  dignity,  Kendry's  fingers  strained 
for  some  decisive  act.  He  stole  a  glance  at  Paulter, 
then  sought  with  his  glistening  eyes  to  bid  her  go, 
while  he  sprang  through  the  fire  and  kicked  its  embers 
into  Paulter's  startled  face. 

She  held  him  for  an  instant  with  a  look  where  all 
the  history  of  her  predicament  seemed  to  lie  open  to 
him  had  he  time  to  read.  He  was  to  be  motionless, 
to  be  silent,  the  one  shake  of  her  head  implored.  He 
turned  to  Paulter.  The  same  voice  called  from  close 
at  hand,  asking  the  way  to  the  fire  in  accents  unmis- 
takably Chinese.  The  girl  sprang  through  the  line  of 


IN    THE    MIST  33 

Kendry's  sight,  over  the  coals  and  into  the  foliage  of 
the  younger  trees.  Their  branches  swung  back  into 
the  circle.  Paulter  wheeled  to  hear  her  whipping 
through  the  outer  saplings.  He  tore  after  her  with  a 
profane  muttering,  a  beating  down  of  branches  and 
a  crashing  of  dead  undergrowth  such  that  the  sound 
of  her  own  going  was  drowned. 

To  follow  him  in  the  way  he  broke  would  have 
seemed  like  a  threat  of  attack  on  an  armed  man. 
Kendry  ran  out  of  the  circle  by  the  way  he  had  come. 
He  butted  through  the  dense  and  darkening  maze, 
reckless  of  hair,  of  skin,  of  clothing.  He  battled  out 
of  the  redwoods  into  the  oaks  and  on  into  the  man- 
zanita,  still  higher  than  his  head,  each  tougher.  He 
laughed  silently  with  the  joy  of  being  in  action  and  at 
the  success  he  felt  would  come  to  the  plan  he  had.  He 
emerged  on  the  higher  ground  where  the  shrubs  rose 
but  waist  high.  He  stood  still.  The  firelight. was  dif- 
fused over  a  broad  space  in  the  fog.  Paulter  was 
behind,  lower  down,  cursing  the  deeper  stretch  of 
crooked,  wiry  stocks  that  caught  him.  He  heard 
Paulter  stop  and  listen.  There  was  no  other  sound; 
the  girl  must  be  kneeling  somewhere  with  the  hope 
that  he  would  pass  her.  Kendry  began  to  move  on 
as  if  in  stealth,  but  he  made  the  manzanita  scratch 
against  his  boots  loud  enough  for  the  ear  of  Paulter. 
He  smiled  at  the  sound  of  Paulter  dashing  after  him, 
guided  by  this  scratching,  and  at  his  own  easy  control 
of  the  distance  that  should  be  maintained  between 


34  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

them.  To  keep  Paulter  well  behind  he  was  presently 
running  through  the  darkness,  kicking  through  the 
stiff  low  chaparral.  He  made  a  blind  leap  and  landed 
in  the  branches  of  a  larger  thing  that  closed  over  him 
and  let  him  gently  to  the  ground.  He  crouched  and 
held  his  breath.  The  firelight  had  dimmed  to  almost 
its  first  faint  luminous  wash  in  the  distance.  He  heard 
Paulter  panting  as  he  came  in  the  fancied  trail  of  the 
girl,  now  through  less  obstruction  and  at  greater  speed ; 
he  heard  the  voices  of  the  two  Chinese  speculating  to 
each  other  by  the  fire ;  he  heard  the  hoot  of  an  owl  a 
mile  away,  all  against  the  gray  silence.  Paulter  came 
and  stopped  where  Kendry  could  have  touched  him. 
It  was  as  if  the  man  knowingly  stood  over  him,  weapon 
in  hand,  deliberating  whether  to  ease  the  rage  that 
boiled  in  his  throat.  But  he  moved  a  step  away,  seem- 
ingly with  his  back  turned.  Kendry  waited  with  a 
hand  upon  the  shale,  his  ringers  trembling  with  the 
temptation  to  even  matters  with  the  man  who  had 
ambushed  him.  He  saw  the  dim  form  make  as  if  to 
start  toward  the  lower  part  of  the  slope.  If  Paulter 
found  the  girl  it  would  be  in  that  direction,  Kendry 
believed.  He  clenched  his  fists :  what  had  been  a  temp- 
tation seemed  about  to  become  a  duty.  Then  Paulter 
halted  again  and  muttered  his  profane  comment. 
"She'll  pay  me  for  that!"  he  added.  He  turned 
slowly  back  to  the  fire.  Soon  the  only  sound  was  his 
plaintive  monotone  addressed  to  his  two  visitors  by  the 
fire.  With  her  knowledge  of  the  mountainside  the  girl 


IN    THE    MIST  35 

must  be  well  away.  Kendry  staggered  up  a  hundred 
feet  and  threw  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  trail.  He 
was  faint,  but  he  was  pleased.  He  had  what  might 
suggest  a  theory  to  explain  the  whole  of  the  girl's 
behavior. 

He  no  longer  held  the  canteen;  but  she  had  gone 
with  his  coat.  It  would  be  the  link  which  the  canteen 
might  have  been,  save  that  the  initiative  by  which  it 
should  serve  him  for  another  interview  must  lie  with 
her.  To-night  it  would  be  impossible  to  find  her.  .She 
would  flee  at  any  sound  of  footsteps.  The  dampness 
bade  him  take  up  his  way  to  the  summit. 

He  should  manage  to  see  her  in  any  case.  She  was 
beautiful — which  meant  for  John  Kendry  that  her  per- 
fection penetrated  throughout.  She  was  in  distress 
and  without  true  friends.  She  had  a  mother  who 
was  feeble  of  body  and  weak  of  will — which  would 
elucidate  the  intrusion  of  Paulter  into  their  lives.  She 
was  solitary,  and  she  loved  the  woods.  She  had  tried 
to  explain  existence,  and  it  meant  to  her  nothing  that 
Paulter  stood  for.  She  was  unhappy — and  she  was 
beautiful. 

His  seeing  her  would  add  to  the  interest  of  the  epi- 
sode as  he  intended  to  recount  it  to  Mary  Eastwood 
It  might  mean  his  also  seeing  Paulter,  who  was  evi- 
dently jealous  and  unscrupulous.  But  the  enmity  of 
unscrupulous  men  Kendry  did  not  expect  to  avoid  in 
his  projected  career.  If  there  had  been  the  impetuous 
in  what  he  had  said  to  the  girl  about  this  choice  of 


36  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

career  it  now  stood  the  test  of  further  thinking.  Under 
her  gaze  he  had  vaguely  said  what  he  expected  to 
evolve  into  a  precise  programme  for  his  life.  He  could 
not  see  into  the  future ;  it  was  as  undefined  as  the  mist 
through  which  he  pushed  his  way  toward  the  summit. 
But  he  had  said  at  random  that  his  departure  might 
begin  with  her,  and  the  words  echoed  prophetically. 
The  way  might  always  lead  through  obscurity  and  no 
fame  accompany  the  achievements  time  might  let  him 
place  to  the  credit  of  his  idea.  But  the  idea  itself  would 
be  enough.  An  idea  that  should  itself  be  enough  was 
what  he  had  been  seeking.  The  way  might  lead  him 
through  great  trials,  even  to  death;  but  all  ways  do, 
he  said  to  himself  in  the  gloom.  But  its  beginning 
perhaps  could  be  generously,  beautifully  impersonal 
with  this  girl. 

He  was  glad  when  he  reached  the  tavern  and  saw 
himself  in  a  mirror  that  Mary  Eastwood  and  her 
mother  had  early  retired.  His  dishevelment,  his  hag- 
gardness,  would  have  been  too  disturbing.  Mary's 
presence  seemed  to  linger  about  the  corridors.  Her 
signature  went  across  the  page  of  the  register  with 
the  precision  of  fine  lace  somewhat  starched.  It 
brought  back  to  him  with  a  freshness  possible  only  to 
such  proximity  the  atmosphere  that  was  as  if  created 
by  her  as  his  refuge  from  the  rude  world.  When  she 
had  learned  to  understand  her  value  to  him  she  would 
become  unwilling  not  to  enjoy  it.  That  he  could  not 
doubt. 


IN    THE    MIST  37 

He  drew  his  bed  to  the  window  and  raised  the 
shade.  A  flood  of  moonlight  surprised  him.  The  sky 
was  cold  and  sparkling.  Below,  on  the  level  where  he 
had  entered,  stretched  the  white  upper  surface  of  the 
fog.  Only  the  summit  of  the  mountain  stood  above 
its  compacted  billows;  the  rest  was  the  cottony  drift, 
blue-shadowed  in  its  irregularities  by  the  moon-dis- 
tance, silent,  motionless  distance  without  end. 

Somewhere  in  the  underlying  gloom  the  girl  was 
making  her  way  toward  a  late  train  and  ferry  to  the 
city — she,  too,  alone  in  a  resolution  which  should 
change  her  life.  He  shook  his  head  at  the  empty  dis- 
tance. He  could  imagine  her  advancing  toward  his 
window,  magnified,  but  real,  treading  the  floor  of  the 
mist.  Her  hair  glistened  in  the  moon ;  her  eyes  re- 
flected the  vault  above  her ;  she  smiled  forward  to  him, 
as  one  approaching  in  the  unconditioned  confidence  of 
a  child. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  OLDER   WOMAN 

WHEN,  the  next  noon,  Kendry  descended  the  moun- 
tain on  a  gravity  car  and  took  the  electric  train  toward 
the  ferry  for  the  city,  the  comparative  sharpness  of  his 
overnight  abstractions  began  to  dim  in  the  detail  of 
practical  life.  From  the  mountain  existence  could 
be  viewed  in  perspective:  sea,  sky,  summit,  and  the 
city  appeared  as  symbols  of  definite  meaning,  simple 
and  cool  to  the  mind.  But  as  he  left  the  higher  alti- 
tude and  mixed  with  his  kind,  the  mere  incidents  of  so 
inconsiderable  a  journey  began  to  enfever  him  with 
innumerable  small  reactions,  each  involving  his  attitude 
toward  a  person  or  thing,  each  reaction  capable  of  its 
moment's  problem  for  a  lively  conscience  and  an  active 
mind.  Amid  so  many  drifts  and  eddies  how  was  he 
to  keep  his  course  trimmed  to  the  idea? 

While  he  had  stared  up  at  the  ceiling  from  his  bed, 
his  refreshed  brain  had  gone  over  the  processes 
through  which  the  idea  had  grown,  and  they  had 
seemed  to  him  without  flaw.  In  his  memorable  talks 
with  his  father,  spreading  through  Kendry's  adoles- 
cence, he  had  formed  the  habit  of  considering  himself 
always  in  distant  but  certain  relation  to  a  conception 

38 


THE    OLDER    WOMAN    .  39 

of  the  universe,  and  in  that  relation  he  had  found  his 
most  stimulating  sources  of  thought.  To  some  men 
such  considerations  led  on  to  religious  access,  to 
devoutness  in  established  worship,  to  acceptance  of 
one  prophet  or  another,  and  thus  to  a  point  of  relative 
rest  from  speculation  as  to  how  to  live.  There  had 
never  been  an  atom  of  superstitious  misgiving  for 
Kendry  while  he  had  spent  some  of  the  meditative 
hours  of  his  youth  in  stripping  from  present  Chris- 
tianity its  husk  of  formalities,  its  accretion  of  doubtful 
history,  its  dead  tissue  of  uncompromising  injunction. 
Back  of  all  these  he  came  to  Christ  the  Preacher,  who 
first  roundly  voiced  the  morality  that  inevitably  had 
evolved  from  human  experience.  But  history  had 
afforded  no  prophet  who,  as  a  lover,  a  husband,  a 
father,  a  citizen,  had  become  a  commanding  pattern 
for  all  time. 

According  to  Kendry,  the  one  thing  true  of  all  life 
was  motion,  and  the  prime  instinct  of  a  live  man  was 
to  go  somewhere  and  do  something;  and  if  the  man 
had  a  live  spirit,  his  instinct  was  to  go  and  do  some- 
thing with  a  new  element,  which  would  tend  toward 
the  progress  of  the  race  to  a  higher  state.  For  most 
men  the  struggle  for  a  competency  determined  the 
direction  of  their  going;  it  regulated  their  humanity, 
it  bounded  their  hopes,  it  checked  the  keenness  of  their 
conjectures  as  to  the  unseen,  the  unknown.  But  to 
Kendry,  sharing  a  modest  two  or  three  millions  with 
a  married  sister  who  lived  in  Rome — he  did  not  know 


40  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

quite  how  much  he  possessed — the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence gave  place  to  the  struggle  for  felicity.  Where  he 
was  beginning  life,  was  for  most  men  the  goal  and 
limit  of  their  aspirations. 

For  nine-tenths  of  the  remainder,  to  which  Kendry 
belonged,  the  struggle  for  felicity  consisted  in  trying 
to  turn  the  two  or  three  millions  into  twenty  or  thirty 
millions,  with  the  accompanying  increase  of  a  certain 
power  over  the  unwilling  and  with  the  accompanying 
vexation  of  their  envious  hatred.  With  the  acqui- 
sition of  twenty  or  thirty  millions  would  come  the 
desire  for  two  or  three  hundred  millions.  The  objec- 
tion to  all  this  for  a  symmetrical  mind  was  that  the 
direction  of  such  an  aim  was  circular,  bending  no- 
where but  upon  itself ;  and  that  it  was  monotonous  and 
without  imaginative  vitality.  It  involved  such  an 
expenditure  of  energy  upon  such  an  inadequate  exten- 
sion of  purpose  as  to  suggest  a  dog  chasing  its  tail. 
It  was  in  logic — viewed  as  a  way  of  escape  from 
eventual  ennui — equal  to  a  man's  endeavor  to  run 
away  from  a  splinter  which  is  in  his  foot.  If  this 
formula  of  a  fixed  radius,  in  which  his  rich  friends 
stupidly  trotted,  was  not  enough  for  Kendry,  what 
would  produce  for  him  the  transcendental  curve  that 
leads  to  better  satisfactions? 

By  youth  and  temperament  he  was  cheerful  in  his 
regard  of  humanity  as  a  going  concern.  He  believed 
that  it  was  ascending,  partly  from  new  wisdom  out 
of  experience,  partly  from  greater  conscious  exertion 


THE    OLDER    WOMAN  41 

of  will.  Somewhere  in  the  sense  of  having  contributed 
to  this  upward  movement  lay  the  deepest,  most  endur- 
ing satisfaction  possible  to  an  individual.  But  for  a 
man  of  twenty-four  to  stand  upon  a  mountain  and  to 
announce,  even  to  himself :  "  I  will  improve  this 
world !  "  opens  to  so  many  possibilities  of  dogmatism, 
of  priggishness,  of  self-righteousness,  that  one  may 
congratulate  Kendry  upon  his  instinctive  perception 
of  this  danger. 

If  he  felt  some  confidence  in  his  reasoning  powers, 
he  was  not  so  sure  of  his  capacity  in  a  practical  world. 
Already  among  his  generation  of  rich  young  men  vice 
fairly  well  had  marked  the  toll  it  would  take;  and  the 
strong  among  the  survivors  were  immersed  in  large 
undertakings,  where  such  new  ideas  as  came  to  them 
went  regularly  through  trial  to  success  or  to  relin- 
quishment.  Their  judgment  as  to  what  was  feasible, 
at  a  point  where  his  purposes  and  theirs  might  inter- 
sect, would  be  supported  by  more  rigid  tests  of  prac- 
tice than  he  yet  could  refer  to.  Yet,  if  his  life  did 
not  lead  him  with  equal  activity  across  the  lines  of 
theirs,  it  would  lead  him  into  the  backwaters  of  mere 
abstraction.  Even  professed  philanthropists  and  those 
who  made  their  careers  in  works  of  charitable  benevo- 
lence, moved  more  or  less  in  the  approach  to  these 
backwaters,  as  against  the  swift  currents  where  men 
dwelt  on  even  terms  with  the  strong  and  the  fortunate. 

It  was  among  those  boiling  waters  that  Kendry's 
father  had  made  his  money.  Kendry  had  no  dis- 


42  JOHN   KENDRTS   IDEA 

taste  for  a  plunge  in  them;  he  had  only  an  objection 
to  making  them  his  vital  element.  He  did  not  want 
more  money,  more  power,  more  distinction,  than  he 
possessed;  yet  he  did  not  want  to  lose  his  fellowship 
with  other  men  who  were  striving  for  those  things. 
But  he  did  want  to  devote  himself  to  a  strengthening 
of  his  will,  a  broadening  of  his  conscious  perception, 
a  general  extension  of  his  being  along  the  path  that 
has  its  known  beginning  in  protoplasm  and  its  end  in 
infinity.  He  had  been  still  without  the  definite  appli- 
cation of  this  desire  necessary  to  give  it  living  value. 
He  believed,  as  he  lay  staring  at  the  ceiling,  that  for 
the  girl  of  his  overnight  adventure  there  was  something 
he  could  perform  that  would  focus  the  beginning  of 
his  career  and  that  would  lift  his  purposes  from  the 
threat  of  a  wearisome  vagueness. 

For  the  success  of  his  plan  he  counted  on  Mary 
Eastwood;  between  her  and  himself  the  process,  he 
hoped,  would  forge  another  link.  He  had  jumped 
up  full  of  the  recountal  he  would  make  to  her  of  his 
yesterday's  adventure.  But  after  having  seen  the  hag- 
gardness  of  his  unshaven  face,  the  tatters  of  his  gar- 
ments, he  had  not  been  displeased  to  find  that  Mary 
Eastwood  and  her  mother,  apparently  unaware  of  his 
arrival,  had  returned  to  town  on  the  morning  train. 
Dishevelment  was  distasteful  to  Mary.  Probable  ap- 
proach to  it,  as  in  a  strong  wind,  a  wet  pavement,  a 
warm  walk  up  a  San  Francisco  hill,  she  scented  afar 
and  skillfully  avoided.  She  was  ever  correct  and  blem- 


THE    OLDER    WOMAN  43 

ishless,  cool  and  colorless  of  skin,  and  utterly  hooked 
and  eyed  in  her  simple  richness  of  costume  and  coiffure. 
It  gave  her  for  his  eye  a  classic  mold,  a  sense  of  her 
being  a  refuge  in  restraint.  There  was  little  of  that 
in  the  quickness  of  her  judgments,  of  her  facial  play, 
of  her  reaction  against  what  she  did  not  approve  of; 
but  there  was  much  of  it  in  her  aloofness  as  to  all  that 
lay  within  the  sensual  line.  She  was  seven  years  his 
senior,  but  she  had  never  referred  to  this  fact.  To 
suggest  it  to  Kendry  as  an  objection  to  his  marrying 
her,  would  have  been  to  meet  his  scorn. 

With  his  affection  for  her  and  with  his  idea  he  had 
started  down  the  mountain,  feeling  like  a  craft 
stanchly  stowed  for  a  journey.  In  an  hour  and  a 
half  he  had  passed  from  these  pleasant  reflections  to 
a  beholding  of  the  expectoration,  the.  profanity,  the 
familiarity,  the  obesity,  of  a  crowd  on  the  front  of  the 
ferryboat  approaching  the  dock  at  the  city.  The  crowd 
had  risen  and  patiently  begun  to  stand  long  before  the 
boat  had  turned  in  from  the  roadway.  Among  them 
he  was  recognized  by  some  women  in  fine  raiment,  a 
capitalist  or  two,  and  an  artist;  and  he  distinguished 
many  types  of  humanity,  of  many  nationalities,  all  bent 
on  purposes  which  had  in  common  that  these  purposes 
were  different  from  his  own.  The  numerical  argument 
smote  him ;  whether  there  was  not  something  quixotic, 
whether  always  there  is  not,  in  trying  to  do  precisely 
what  no  one  else  is  trying  to  do. 

Against  this,  he  summoned  the  soft  vitality  of  the 


44  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

girl,  her  gentle  wistfulness,  her  blue-eyed  mystery.  It 
prevailed  and  he  believed  it  would  prevail  with  Mary 
Eastwood.  The  odor  of  sewage  emptying  into  the 
bay  at  low  tide  assailed  his  nostrils.  The  mountain 
departed  from  the  distant  view,  shut  off  by  a  row  of 
splintered  piles.  The  crowd  poured  forth  through  a 
precarious  looking  shed,  it  deposited  Kendry  in  the 
midst  of  drays  and  street  cars,  of  risen  dust  and  hurry- 
ing feet,  of  shouts  and  clangor  and  rumbling,  of 
jostling  and  importunities,  where  the  one  important 
thoroughfare  debouched  meanly  to  the  water-front. 
Kendry's  mind  went  back  to  the  mountain,  the  clean 
chaparral,  the  air  laden  with  wild-lilac  bloom.  He 
depressedly  entered  a  cab. 

In  America  he  generally  regarded  such  a  thing  as 
extravagance.  The  cab  bounced  over  sink  holes  and 
loose  paving  stones  up  the  broad  street  lined  with 
wholesale  business  houses ;  it  interfered  with  the  cross 
traffic  and  with  the  cable  cars,  taking  advantage  where 
it  could  and  giving  way  where  it  must.  The  build- 
ings were  a  heterogeneous  mixture,  some  new  and 
massive,  ranging  to  positive  beauty,  others  old  and 
without  the  possibilities  of  the  picturesque,  all  in  the 
clash  of  undigested  progress. 

Against  its  ephemeral  total,  its  untidiness,  the 
obstruction  of  the  sidewalks,  the  compacted  chaotic 
colorlessness  of  an  American  city,  the  cheerful  sun 
rose  from  a  clear  sky,  and  a  brisk  breeze  from  the 
sea,  sweeping  loose  papers  and  the  debris  of  packing 


THE    OLDER    WOMAN  45 

cases,  enlivened  the  heart  with  a  certain  inclination  to 
irresponsibility.  Gradually  the  scene  bettered ;  the  cab 
turned  off  at  a  point  where  the  buildings  had  begun  to 
be  of  the  largest  size  and  importance.  Kendry  looked 
up  to  the  top  of  the  structure  that  most  impressively 
represented  the  Eastwood  fortune.  It  stood  a  monu- 
ment to  the  late  Mark  Eastwood ;  it  reflected  the  per- 
sonality of  his  son  and  it  was  the  financial  background 
of  his  daughter.  It  was  ornate  and  heavily  corniced 
and  bore  the  window  signs  of  great  corporations.  It 
was  imposing  enough  as  an  answer  to  an  idea  that 
might  be  suspected  of  altruism.  It  looked  down  upon 
Kendry  as  if  smiling  with  its  ability  to  crush  him  and 
his  little  millions  by  the  vast  preponderance  of  men 
and  money  represented  within.  His  cab  stopped  be- 
fore a  stuccoed  building  dating  back  to  the  bonanza 
days,  beslitted  with  windows  high  and  narrow.  Shops 
covered  most  of  the  ground  floor.  The  lobby  of  the 
hotel  was  gloomy  with  mahogany  and  cold  with  mar- 
ble tiles ;  but  in  his  room  he  had  arranged  colors  that 
overcame  the  memory  of  the  approach.  They  served 
to  soften  the  harsh  impression  of  his  return  to  the 
city  until  he  issued  in  another  garb  and  hurried  to 
find  Mary  Eastwood. 

The  painted  redwood  structure  of  the  Eastwoods, 
with  its  cupola,  its  lathe-work,  its  sanded  balustrade, 
clung  to  a  steep  decline,  from  whose  top  it  looked 
back  over  many  hills  and  forth  along  the  brief  plane 
occupied  by  the  houses  of  the  millionaires  of  the  era 


46  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

of  the  railroad  and  of  the  mines.  A  half  acre  of 
sward  distributed  about  it,  added  to  the  considerable 
open  spaces  in  the  neighborhood.  The  house  stood  in 
the  well-kept  respectability  of  a  past  fashion,  neither 
beautiful  nor  cheerful,  but  spacious.  To  Kendry, 
mounting  its  steps  at  this  stage  of  his  suppliancy  for 
the  favor  of  its  single  daughter,  its  aspect  was  familiar 
but  still  formal. 

He  hoped  her  mother  would  be  there.  He  always 
had  been  at  ease  with  Mrs.  Eastwood;  he  had  been 
at  ease,  though  he  was  aware  of  her  eye  traveling 
between  him  and  her  daughter,  at  moments  when  their 
speech  illuminated  their  state  of  sentiment  toward  each 
other.  If  Mrs.  Eastwood  desired  a  man  of  twenty-four 
to  marry  her  daughter,  her  acts  were  apparently  in 
accordance;  her  presence  never  endured  but  a  few 
moments;  her  mood  was  of  perpetual  acquiescence  to 
their  plans  for  going  to  places  together.  If  she  wisely 
intended  to  add  no  fuel  of  opposition  to  a  flame  she 
might  think  to  detect  in  her  daughter,  such  an  inter- 
pretation was  beyond  Kendry's  habit  of  mind. 

It  was  Henry  Eastwood,  however,  who  received  him. 
His  manner  was  of  cordiality  overflowing  from  a 
heavy  face  and  a  large  frame,  which  at  thirty-three 
was  of  coming  adipose. 

"You're  never  at  your  office,  old  chap,"  he  said. 
"  Two  things  I  want  to  see  you  about.  There's  your 
lot  back  of  Mab's  on  Mission  street ;  why  don't  you  put 
a  joint  building  on  the  two  frontages  ?  It's  a  cinch !  " 


THE   OLDER    WOMAN  47 

"  Does  Mary  want  to?  "  said  Kendry. 

"  Get  in  and  make  her  want  to !  "  said  Eastwood,  on 
a  rising  scale,  with  his  confidence,  his  winning  manner 
which  was  an  asset  in  his  business.  He  leaned  forward 
massively.  "  Make  it  another  bond  in  your  friendship 
with  Mab!  I  can't  help  feeling  how  much  our  two 
estates  would  gain  if  we  played  our  hands  a  little 
closer  together.  You  know  how  our  governors  used 
to  hobnob?  Drop  into  the  office,  and  let  me  show 
you  another  cinch  or  two !  " 

"  You  see,  I  don't  spend  the  income,  as  it  is ;  and  I've 
just  got  it  all  where  I  can  operate  it  in  about  two 
hours'  work  a  day,"  said  Kendry.  "I  don't  think " 

"  Needn't  say  so  now,"  Eastwood  waved  cheerfully. 
"  The  other  thing  I  wanted  to  talk  about  was  Mary. 
You  can't  operate  her  in  two  hours  a  day!  Have  a 
drink  ?  Now  here's  a  friendly  tip  just  how  to  operate 
Mab.  Mind " 

"  Go  on,"  said  Kendry,  with  good  nature.  "  I 
came  here  to  see  her." 

"  Well,"  Eastwood  drawled,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  "she's  come  home  with  a  grouch — a  Pullman 
grouch ;  some  trouble  with  the  nigger.  She's  got  neu- 
rasthenia, sesthesia  and  Europomania.  Nothing  to  her 
discredit,"  he  said,  with  a  look  to  Kendry.  "  It's 
a  fashionable  complaint.  She  wants  to  sell  out  her 
end  of  everything  here  and  buy  consols,  at  two  and  a 
half  per  cent.,  and  never  have  to  come  back  to  this 
country  on  business.  The  trouble  is  that  if  Mab  wants 


48  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

to,  she  can !  Now,  of  course,  I  don't  know  what  kind 
of  affinity  you  are  pursuing  with  Mab — that's  her 
affair.  But  you  say  you've  come  back  here  to  stay. 
Well,  she  says  she's  come  back  to  pull  up  her  stakes. 

That  all "  he  finished,  twinkling  wisely.  Kendry 

heard  the  swish  of  silk  petticoats  in  the  corridor;  he 
feared  that  his  cheeks  were  warming.  Eastwood  rose 
lightly  on  his  heavy  legs.  At  the  door  he  winked  and 
lowered  his  voice. 

"  You'll  want  all  your  steam !  "  he  grinned. 

He  made  his  escape  without  formality,  as  his  sister 
and  her  mother  entered  the  adjoining  room.  Kendry 
had  a  moment's  look  at  Mary's  long  straight  lines 
converging  faintly  at  the  waist,  her  full  dark  hair,  the 
agreeable  perfection  of  her  raiment.  She  gave  an 
exclamation  of  long  suffering,  and  threw  herself 
wearily  into  a  chair  before  she  saw  him.  Kendry 
met  her  at  the  threshold,  his  heart  beating  too  swift 
a  measure,  his  determination  to  be  a  man  of  forty 
submerged  in  the  fervor  of  his  greeting. 

"  It's  a  great  joy  to  see  you  again !  "  he  said,  to  the 
cool  touch  of  her  fingers.  She  shook  her  head  to  him, 
in  the  obsession  she  had  brought  with  her. 

"  Isn't  it  too  hideous !  "  she  waved  through  the  open 
window  at  the  hills  of  housetops,  while  he  went  for- 
ward to  her  mother.  "  How  have  you  stood  this  place 
so  long!  It's  stupefying!  We're  marooned  here,  for 
two  months !  " 

"  You  find  no  compensation  in  the  sunshine,  the  sea 


THE    OLDER    WOMAN  49 

breeze,  that  line  of  mountains  ?  "  said  Kendry.     Her 
frown  mixed  with  astonishment  at  him. 

"  What's  to  compensate  me — for  those  four  days 
in  a  Pullman,  for  the  insolent  servants,  for  those  dread- 
ful citizens,  dinning  their  illiteracy  in  one's  ears? 
What  is  there  on  earth  to  compensate  for  your 
spurious  New  York?  It's  too  far  out  of  London! 
And  for  Chicago — it's  too  near  into  Hell !  "  she  calmly 
observed. 

Kendry  laughed.  Mrs.  Eastwood  watched  him. 
Her  iron-gray  hair  had  never  been  the  color  of  her 
daughter's.  The  less  obvious  current  of  her  emotions 
was  from  temperament,  not  from  middle  age.  She 
did  not  join  in  his  indulgence. 

"  A  little  habituation  and  one  discovers  the  pleas- 
anter  side  of  it,"  Kendry  appealed  to  her. 

"  A  little  tolerance  and  one  loves  the  good  side  of 
it,"  Grace  Eastwood  said.  Mary  glanced  at  her  pity- 
ingly. 

"  I  haven't  the  least  intention  of  getting  to  love 
it ! "  she  said,  to  the  maid  who  took  her  hat.  Her 
determination  stood  in  the  pressure  of  her  lips.  Their 
thin  line  of  slight  curve,  the  high  narrowness  of  her 
forehead,  the  slenderness  of  her  nose  in  its  regular 
descent,  meant  for  Kendry  her  invincible  virtue. 
"  Will  you  tell  me  what  there  is  here  but  food  for  a 
bourgeoisie?  "  she  said.  "  Is  there  any  art,  any  music, 
anything  to  soothe  a  single  one  of  one's  offended 
senses?  It's  a  country  where  there's  no  conversation. 


50  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

I  shall  go  out  to-morrow  night,  and  talk  Heaven  knows 
what  twaddle  with  the  women  in  one  corner,  while 
the  men  crowd  into  another  corner  and  talk  real  estate. 
I  shall  go  to  a  cotillion  and  be  led  through  a  dance 
by  the  gentleman  whose  firm  has  done  the  catering  for 
the  evening.  I  shall  go  to  the  theater  and  see  an 
English  drawing-room  drama  played  by  persons  who 
never  set  foot  in  a  proper  drawing-room,  and  who  can't 
speak  the  English  language,  even  through  their  noses. 
I  shall  go — I  shall  go  back  to  the  Continent  as  soon  as 
I  can !  "  she  dismissed  it.  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  Bursting  with  health !  "  said  Kendry.  It  belied 
the  effects  of  his  strain  the  night  before. 

"  Have  you  settled  in  California  ?  "  Mrs.  Eastwood 
startled  him. 

Kendry  made  his  answer  boldly  to  her  daughter. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I've  discovered  things  to  do 
here."  He  began  the  story  of  his  day  on  Tamalpais, 
lightening  the  assault  he  had  suffered  and  dwelling  on 
the  spiritual  process  that  had  worked  itself  through 
his  strange  encounters.  He  did  not  feel  called  upon 
to  follow  the  irresponsible  workings  of  his  mind  in  a 
dream,  where  a  girl  with  blue  eyes  became  confused 
with  a  woman  whose  gray  eyes  now  followed  him  with 
a  touch  of  amusement  and  condescension.  Her  mother 
sat  longer  than  her  custom,  taking  him  in.  There  had 
been  in  her  youth  a  great  power  in  her  approving  smile ; 
she  had  been  beautiful  and  had  moved  things  by  her 
beauty  rather  than  by  the  edged  tools  of  intellect.  He 


THE    OLDER    WOMAN  51 

remembered,  when  he  awakened  to  her  having  made 
her  noiseless  withdrawal,  her  remark  that  it  was  well 
for  him  to  stay  a  good  American  rather  than  become  a 
man  without  a  country.  She  was  on  his  side  in  that, 
he  comfortably  felt.  Mary  listened,  with  her  fingers 
tapping  the  arm  of  the  chair.  He  emerged  into  his 
plea  for  those  blue  eyes. 

"  I  want  to  change  her  environment,  to  let  in  the 
air  and  the  sun.  She'll  meet  her  opportunities — or 
rather,  they'll  come  after  her,  no  gainsaying  that !  " 
said  Kendry.  "  I  rely  on  you  to  help  me."  Mary  con- 
sulted her  fingers. 

"  Could  she  serve  at  a  breakfast  table  ?  "  She  looked 
up,  with  some  preparation  for  his  demurring. 

"  Oh,  I  must  have  quite  failed  to  describe  her ! " 
said  Kendry.  "  She's  a  personage ;  she  has  majesty. 
She'd  carry  it  all  off  here,"  he  waved  at  the  room. 
"  Her  voice  is  enough  in  itself ;  it's  like  a  cool  waterfall 
in  a  far  little  canon.  But  it's  her  beauty  that  will 
suffice  you.  What  I'm  getting  at  is,  that  you'll  want 
to  model  her." 

'  You  mean  on  even  terms,"  said  Mary.  "  You 
mean  I'm  to  introduce  her  into  society.  She  can't ;  she 
won't  have  any  clothes." 

"  She  transcends  clothes,"  said  Kendry. 

"Then  she  isn't  a  she,"  said  Mary.  "But  this 
rough;  this  person  whom  she  follows  about  with  a 
canteen  of  brandy — am  I  to  ask  him  to  dinner  ?  "  said 
Mary. 


52  JOHN   KENDRTS   IDEA 

"  Exactly  not ! "  said  Kendry.  "  Don't  you  see,  it 
is  her  being  hedged  into  places  where  he  can  follow 
her  that  is  spoiling  her  life.  If  we  rescue  her  from 
that,  if  we  create  a  natural  environment  for  her,  the 
air  will  be  too  rarefied  for  him  to  breathe.  He'll 
simply  expire.  She'll  blossom  into  her  proper  destiny. 
It  will  be  as  much  a  rescue  as  if  she  were  drowning. 
She  is  drowning;  and  to  save  her  will  be  the  most 
tremendous  satisfaction.  It's  the  one  sort  of  true 
satisfaction  the  world  affords,  I've  become  convinced. 
And  what  doubles  it  for  me,  is  the  thought  that  you 
and  I  should  share  it  together." 

She  faintly  rose  to  his  warmth.  "  You've  fallen 
in  love  with  a  California  cabbage-rose,  from  the  out- 
side, I  think,"  she  said  judicially.  "  I  have  never 
seen  a  girl  of  fine  instincts  who  went  hunting  crim- 
inals in  the  wilderness  at  night,  to  give  them  brandy. 
But  one  doesn't  have  to  follow  the  matter  up  be- 
yond convenience.  It  might  while  away  one's  exile. 
What's  her  name?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  even  know  where  she 
lives,"  said  Kendry.  "  It's  my  first  purpose  to  find 
that  out.  I'm  going  at  it  now,"  he  said,  with  a  fine 
determination  for  restraint  in  his  visits  at  the  East- 
wood house.  Mary  surveyed  him  with  interest,  as 
he  rose.  His  heart  beat  a  little  faster  at  the  success 
of  this  first  step  with  her.  At  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room  he  suddenly  fell  from  his  resolve.  He  felt  that 
he  should  get  a  return  for  his  ardor. 


THE    OLDER    WOMAN  53 

"  It's  going  to  be  one  more  bond  between  us! "  he 
said.  "  That's  what  I  most  want !  " 

She  drew  her  hand  away.  "  Don't ! "  she  said. 
"  You  must  remember  how  this  place  gets  on  my 
nerves,  and  you  must  keep  sane." 

He  endeavored  to  smile  collectedly.  "  Good-by !  " 
he  flushed,  trying  to  bridge  the  gap  with  warmth 
despite  her.  He  murmured  some  disconnected  sylla- 
bles. On  the  steps,  he  ground  his  teeth  for  having 
leaped  the  barriers;  it  had  been  callow,  awkward, 
ridiculous.  He  must  work  for  the  moment  when  it 
would  be  she  to  step  outside  of  them,  even  against 
her  will.  He  was  determined  that  such  a  moment 
should  come.  There  was  nothing  to  interrupt  him 
from  keeping  on  in  that  determination. 


CHAPTER    IV 

A   VISIT   TO   CHAN    ROW 

THE  girl  with  the  blue  eyes  knew  his  name  and  could 
discover  his  address  and  return  his  coat.  But  Kendry 
was  not  in  a  mood  to  wait  for  anything.  He  had  his 
programme,  and  he  would  demonstrate  to  Mary  that 
he  could  carry  it  out  with  reference  to  the  girl  and  by 
so  much  more,  probably,  with  reference  to  Mary  her- 
self. He  stared  out  through  the  curtains  of  a  window 
at  his  club.  Chance  might  let  him  spend  a  lifetime 
before  it  favored  him  again  as-  it  had  on  the  mountain ; 
chance  had  him  in  its  grip,  powerless  but  defiant.  Yet 
it  was  not  extraordinary,  considering  the  location  of 
his  club,  that  presently  he  saw  her,  unmistakably  her 
from  that  poise  of  head,  that  richness  of  hair,  gliding 
by  in  a  blue  dress  on  the  open  end  of  an  electric  car. 

Upon  his  precipitous  return  to  the  pavement,  her  car 
had  drawn  a  block  away ;  but  another  followed  it.  He 
crowded  to  a  standing  place  on  the  forward  footrail. 
Presently  she  had  alighted  and  was  on  another  car, 
shooting  up  a  hill,  at  right  angles  to  him.  Five  min- 
utes later  she  changed  again.  Her  car  slid  down  a 
steep  hill  through  Chinatown,  and  now  he  could  best 
follow  her  on  foot.  Evidently  something  had  oc- 
curred to  alter  her  destination.  She  had  traveled 

54 


A    VISIT    TO   CHAN   KOW  55 

over  three  sides  of  a  rectangle  in  a  way  that  for  any 
purpose  was  decidedly  a  roundabout.  Kendry  swung 
down  through  the  Japanese  fringe  of  the  Chinese 
quarter  with  a  zest.  He  saw  her  alight  at  Kearney 
Street  and  go  rapidly  to  the  north.  Soon  he  was 
gaining  on  her  by  cutting  across  the  square.  She 
turned  about  once  and  swept  a  glance  across  the 
sward,  so  that  he  could  not  understand  why  she  did 
not  take  account  of  the  marked  raising  of  his  hat. 
Immediately  she  hurried  down  a  narrow  street  and  was 
lost  to  sight.  When  he  reached  the  corner  she  had 
disappeared. 

He  continued  to  another  crossing,  then  turned  back, 
looking  into  the  entrances  for  one  likely  to  have  swal- 
lowed her.  The  halls  were  dusty  and  dingy ;  some  of 
them  bore  the  ancient  placards  of  small  business  con- 
cerns and  minor  factories.  On  one  corner  was  the 
police  headquarters  and  the  morgue.  Other  open- 
ings led  to  cheap  restaurants  and  saloons.  The  street 
was  on  the  edge  of  Chinatown  and  of  the  Latin 
quarter  at  that  point  and  its  atmosphere  incongruous 
with  the  girl.  He  could  not  knock  at  all  the  doors 
up  the  various  stairs  and  ask  for  a  young  woman 
whose  name  he  did  not  know.  But  he  was  certain 
that  she  had  not  gone  beyond  these  narrow  bounds 
and  he  resolved  to  wait.  He  took  up  a  position  in  the 
square,  where  he  could  see  whosoever  issued  forth. 
Chinatown  came  down  on  three  sides  of  the  square, 
with  its  signs  in  red  or  black  and  gold,  and  its  painted 


56  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

balconies.  Across  the  square  in  the  breeze  that  rarely 
fails,  the  bronze  galleon  of  the  Stevenson  monument 
swept  full-sailed.  But  for  the  box-like  proportions 
of  the  inclosure  the  scene  would  have  been  of  a  pic- 
turesqueness  complete. 

It  grew  dusk,  and  Kendry  kept  in  mind  the  character 
of  the  girl's  blue  serge  gown,  of  her  simple  straw  hat, 
and  of  her  distinguished  bearing,  which  triumphed 
over  a  costume  that  was  neither  distinguished  nor 
new.  In  his  imagination  he  saw  her  dressed  by  Mary 
Eastwood's  genius.  For  an  hour  he  paced  up  and 
down.  He  became  hungry  and  less  confident  as  to  the 
direction  of  her  vanishing.  It  ended  in  his  resolving 
on  dinner,  at  one  of  the  Bohemian  restaurants  near 
by,  for  a  diversion  from  his  disappointment. 

He  bought  one  of  the  evening  papers,  observing 
that  it  was  a  sign  of  a  relaxed  will  for  him  to  do  so. 
Its  scareheads  mocked  his  intelligence  and  belied  his 
tastes,  and  he  knew  that  part  of  its  contents  would 
arouse  his  contempt.  But  he  entered  the  restaurant, 
and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  crowded  tables  to  run  it 
over  for  its  amount  of  important  news  while  he  ate. 
When  he  had  finished  and  chanced  again  to  glance  at 
it,  he  saw  that  one  of  its  scareheads  contained  the 
name  of  Arthur  Paulter.  Paulter's  room  had  been 
robbed  of  sixteen  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  securi- 
ties, mainly  unregistered  bonds.  A  Chinese  cook 
employed  on  the  premises  was  missing.  Such  a  theft 
on  the  part  of  a  Chinaman  from  a  white  man  was 


A    VISIT    TO    CHAN   KOW  57 

unprecedented,  and  the  police  were  inclined  to  doubt 
that  he  was  the  thief.  But  Paulter  accused  the  cook 
of  having  been  in  collusion  with  a  firm  of  Chinese 
jewelers  to  whom  Paulter  had  supplied  silver  bullion, 
certain  bars  of  which  they  claimed  had  been  cored  and 
filled  with  baser  metal.  Paulter  had  denied  respon- 
sibility for  this ;  but  a  criminal  suit  had  been  brought 
against  Paulter  and  he  had  evaded  summons  by  leav- 
ing town.  In  his  absence  the  matter  had  been  com- 
promised out  of  court.  Now,  on  his  return,  he 
charged  that  the  theft  had  been  arranged  in  order  to 
compensate  the  Chinese  for  their  relinquishments  of 
part  of  their  claim  against  him,  as  well  as  to  mulct 
him  in  a  large  additional  sum. 

These  securities,  then,  were,  as  he  had  overheard 
Paulter  say,  all  that  the  girl  and  her  mother  possessed. 
The  loss  completed  her  as  a  vision  appealing  to  his 
imagination,  his  generosity.  If  at  the  moment  he 
could  have  found  Paulter,  he  would  have  attempted 
by  a  sweet  reasonableness  to  make  his  way  to  the  girl. 
She  would  take  some  employment,  of  course,  and 
Kendry  must  see  that  it  was  of  the  most  desirable 
sort.  From  that  he  must  go  on  to  the  upbuilding  of 
her  opportunities.  Her  beauty  was  the  outward  sign 
for  him  of  a  quantity  the  most  desirable  in  the  world, 
addressing  itself  to  him  for  preservation  and  care. 
Helping  her,  as  one  cultivates  the  soil  for  the  lily, 
would  add  to  the  sum  total  of  human  joy  and  welfare, 
whatsoever  it  cost  in  the  neglect  or  the  uprooting  of 


58,  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

unlovely  weeds.  It  was  a  great  enterprise,  this  devout 
recognition  and  setting  in  its  proper  sphere  of  a  lovely 
work  of  nature;  and,  according  to  Kendry,  one  of  its 
wonders  was  to  be  the  beautifully  impersonal  part  he 
himself  would  play.  He  would  be  the  god  behind  the 
cloud,  godlike  in  his  powers  and  in  his  remoteness. 

Where  he  sat  one  could  see  down  the  busy  space 
with  the  rows  of  small  tables  and  a  broad  frieze  of  con- 
tinuous Pompeiian  red.  Drawn  in  sharp  contrasting 
colors  on  this  frieze  was  a  series  of  scenes  and  figures, 
with  inscriptions,  quotations  and  cabalistic  words,  sug- 
gesting the  dreams  of  one  who  had  read  cheerfully  of 
a  droll  Balzac  and  had  dined  and  smoked  with  lib- 
erality in  a  company  whose  mood  was  for  complete 
jocular  abandonment.  On  the  ceiling,  from  above 
the  door,  the  prints  of  a  pair  of  masculine  feet  were 
drawn,  proceeding  thence  along  to  four  prints  of  the 
legs  of  a  table,  between  which  waited  two  smaller 
footprints  that  were  not  masculine.  At  a  longer  table 
in  the  center  of  the  room  dined  the  group  who  popu- 
larly were  supposed  to  sail  under  these  emblazon- 
ments, and  who  gave  the  restaurant  its  literary  and 
artistic  vogue  and  made  it  "  a  place  to  go."  They 
stood  out  rather  well  defined  from  the  more  elaborate 
personages  who  filled  most  of  the  tables  along  the 
sides,  and  who  commented  upon  them  in  varying  spirit, 
but  generally  with  some  envy  of  the  prominence  and 
gayety  of  the  group.  Kendry  had  but  little  acquaint- 
ance among  them  and  but  little  sympathy  for  them, 


A    VISIT    TO    CHAN   ROW  59 

because,  for  want  of  a  better  reason,  they  appeared 
to  dine  perpetually  in  one  place.  He  thoughtfully 
tore  out  of  the  newspaper  the  reference  to  Paulter  and 
folded  it  away. 

"  Interested  in  that  case?  "  said  the  little  man  at  his 
elbow.  Kendry  for  the  first  time  examined  him.  The 
man  had  entered  shortly  after  himself;  he  had  extra- 
ordinarily large  ears  and  small  pale  eyes  that  shifted 
with  a  certain  intelligence  beneath  huge  shaggy  brows. 
He  wore  a  suit  of  shoddy  and  a  scarlet  tie  that  nearly 
hid  his  collar.  He  breathed  audibly  through  his  nose. 

"Perhaps  you  know  Paulter?"  said  Kendry. 

"  I  saw  you  putting  away  that  article,"  said  the  little 
man.  "  Got  business  in  Chinatown,  I  suppose " 

"You  seem  interested  in  the  case,"  said  Kendry, 
with  some  enjoyment  of  the  man's  persistency. 
"  Perhaps  you  are  acquainted  in  Chinatown." 

The  man  across  the  table  grinned.  He  was  bronzed 
and  wiry,  with  close-cropped  hair  and  with  a  fouled 
anchor  tattooed  on  the  back  of  his  hand.  A  black- 
haired  Pole  sat  next  him,  with  a  waxy  skin  and  hollow 
dreamy  eyes.  The  four  at  the  table  made  a  mixture 
unusual  even  in  this  Bohemian  resort.  The  little  man 
met  Kendry's  evasion  with  a  full  glance,  then  smiled 
good  naturedly,  pulling  at  his  brushy  mustache.  Ken- 
dry  was  in  the  whimsical  mood  to  pass  him  his  cigar 
case.  The  man  with  the  ears  and  the  sailor  un- 
hesitatingly accepted  his  choice  tobacco.  The  Pole 
searched  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 


60  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

"  I  will  accept  one  of  yours,  sir,  if  you  will  accept 
one  of  mine/'  he  pronounced  in  excellent  English. 
His  pricked  fingers  held  forth  a  black  suspicious  weed 
which  Kendry  gravely  bowed  to.  The  two  others 
twinkled.  "  You  don't  mind  my  taking  one  of  my 
lighter  ones  first  ?  "  Kendry  politely  said. 

"  I  don't  mind  your  throwing  it  into  the  gutter, 
sir,"  said  the  Pole,  without  expression  on  his  face. 
"  It's  the  same  privilege  I  have  with  yours,"  he  ex- 
plained, putting  Kendry's  in  his  mouth.  The  four 
looked  at  each  other  while  the  matches  were  passed. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  the  little  man  puffed,  "  speak- 
ing of  Chinamen ;  if  you  do  a  Chink  white  he  won't  do 
you  no  dirt.  I  don't  know  what  your  sentiments 
are "  he  deferred  to  Kendry.  Kendry  thought- 
fully surveyed  him.  He  was  being  approached,  he 
felt,  and  as  with  most  rich  men  experience  had  taught 
him  to  be  wary.  The  sailor  filled  the  pause  by  laying 
on  the  table  the  two  chopped  halves  of  a  silver  dollar. 

"  You  can  have  my  sentiments  for  nothing,"  he 
said.  They  all  looked  at  the  ruined  coin. 

"  Case  for  a  coroner's  jury?  "  said  Kendry. 

"  It  is,"  said  the  sailor,  "  and  you  can  take  it  from 
me;  the  best  part  of  a  heathen  Chinee  is  the  horse- 
hair of  his  cue  and  pigskin  of  his  hide.  I've  gone 
agin  him  in  all  the  plague-ports  of  the  world,  and  I 
say:  have  no  business  with  him  till  ye  have  his  ear 
nailed  to  the  doorpost !  " 

"  Let  us  know  the  worst,"  said  Kendry. 


A    VISIT    TO    CHAN    ROW  61 

"  Why,  me  and  a  friend  of  mine  come  ashore  the 
other  day  and  thought  we'd  have  our  fortunes  told/' 
said  the  sailor.  "  There  was  a  sign  in  Fish  Alley : 

'  Ah  Ma  has  the  double  eye 3  (meaning  second 
sight,  I  suppose).  'Plenty  good  fortune  tell!!  Price: 
one  bit  girl,  two  bit  boy,  three  bit  lady,  four  bit  man.9 

"  We  climbed  three  flights  of  stairs  that  shook  like 
ratlines,  and  come  out  on  the  roof.  'Twas  a  tannery 
up  there,  laid  out  with  cat  and  dog  skins;  and  there 
was  a  four  by  seven  cabin,  with  every  kind  of  an 
unmatched  stick  you  could  pick  up  in  a  lumber  yard. 
,Here  was  old  Ah  Ma  with  a  pair  of  specs  as  big  as 
door  knobs  and  nothing  else  more  to  speak  of ;  for  he 
was  mending  a  hole  in  the  bilge  of  his  old  silk  breeches. 
He  had  a  stove  made  of  an  oil  can  on  top  of  a  stool 
outside  and  was  stewing  pig's  liver  and  rice  on  the 
top  of  some  charcoal ;  and  inside  he  had  a  bunk  the  size 
of  a  bachelor,  with  a  turkey  red  comforter,  and  the 
walls  lined  with  Sunday  supplements  to  keep  out  the 
wind.  He  had  shelves  all  around  it,  with  bottles  of 
dried  snakes,  horned  toads,  and  sea-horses.  There 
was  an  old  crow  hung  by  the  neck  in  a  glass  jar  of 
gin,  and  every  kind  of  bad-looking  bug  and  worm  and 
every  other  sort  of  poisonous  thing  ye  can  pick  off 
the  ground  for  your  health.  He  had  a  cat  with  no 
eyes,  and  a  Waterbury  clock,  and  a  fat  China  joss 
tied  on  the  wall,  smelling  with  joss-sticks.  Across 
the  door,  to  keep  you  from  minding  his  business,  he 
had  a  table  with  an  ink  slab  and  brushes  and  half  a 


62  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

dozen  bamboo  cylinders  filled  with  fortune  sticks,  and 
a  red  luck  calendar  with  blue  silk  strings. 

"  He  bows  very  solemn  and  sticks  the  needle  in  a 
safe  place  in  his  breeches  and  lowers  himself  down  into 
'em  and  was  ready  for  business.  Then  I  handed  him 
out  some  China  lingo." 

"  Pidgin  coo?"  said  Kendry. 

"  Not  at  all/'  said  the  sailor.  "  I  hashed  up  the 
names  of  the  treaty  ports  with  a  little  Chinook  jargon 
and  tonsilitis  and  then  sang  it  up  in  contralto  with  a 
kind  of  bow-string  movement  to  my  gizzard.  Twas 
fluent  with  him.  I  finished  every  sentence  with 
*  Hankow ' ;  and  it  made  him  think  I  was  from  that 
place.  All  these  Chinese  are  from  Canton  and  can 
no  more  sabbee  Hankow  dialect  than  you  could  smoke 
that  cigar  the  tailor  here  just  give  you.  So  says 
Ah  Ma: 

"  *  You  talkee  Melican  ?  You  wanchee  fortune 
tell?' 

"  *  YouVe  hit  it  in  the  eye,  Mama/  says  I.  For  a 
joke  I  took  my  friend  by  the  nape  of  the  neck.  '  My 
friend  here  is  deaf,  dumb  and  daffy — no  fashion  can 
talkee  do,  no  fashion  can  sabbee.  But  the  poor  idiot 
thinks  you  can  tell  his  fortune  and  draw  the  map  of 
his  life.  He  don't  care  about  his  life,  Mama/  says  I, 
'  but  he  would  like  to  know  the  name  of  his  future 
wife — in  order  to  avoid  making  her  acquaintance/ 

"Old  Mama,  he  picks  up  a  little  gong  and  tells  my 
friend  to  keep  striking  it,  which  I  made  show  of  say- 


A    VISIT    TO    CHAN    KOW  63 

ing  it  to  him  in  sign  language.  Then  while  the  music 
was  going  on,  old  Mama  he  picks  up  a  telescope  and 
looks  through  the  little  end  of  it  into  my  friend's  ear. 
Then  he  shuts  his  eyes  and  pulled  out  a  stick  from  the 
cylinder  and  finds  the  number  and  looks  up  the  number 
in  his  calendar  and  begins  to  write,  with  me  and  my 
friend  nodding  to  the  gong  as  solemn  as  sea-cows. 
'  You  might  read  that,  Mama,'  says  I,  '  for  I  left  my 
gold  spectacles  at  Hankow/  The  old  man  never 
cracks  a  human  expression  on  his  face.  *  This  fortune 
tell,'  says  he,  *  one  piece  wife  catchee  two  year  more. 
Two  boy  catchee,  two  year  more.  Maybe  one  piece 
girl  catchee  bimeby,  lookout!  Bimeby  one  tousan 
dollar  catchee/  Then  he  sits  back  as  blank  as  an  empty 
plate.  '  Is  that  all  ? '  says  I.  He  makes  no  answer. 
'  Is  that  all  for  climbing  them  stairs  and  not  being  in- 
vited to  luncheon  a  la  pig's  liver  ? '  says  I.  He  looks 
at  me ;  then  he  measures  up  my  friend.  '  How  much 
pay  ? '  says  he.  '  Why,  "  four  bit  man," '  says  I. 
Then  the  old  man  smiles  with  his  eye  toward  me  and 
frowns  with  the  eye  toward  my  friend.  *  S'pose  make 
him  pay  fi'  dollar/  says  the  old  man  to  me.  '  Two 
dollar  hop  you ;  two  dollar  hop  me/  '  Two  dollar  hop 

what,  what ?  '  says  I.     Old  Mama  he  points  at  my 

friend.  '  One  piece  man  four  bit/  he  nods.  '  One 
piece  damn  fool,  ft  dollar.  You  take  a  hop,  me  take 
a  hop/ 

"  We  sat  staring  at  him  a  bit,  helpless  with  our  feel- 
ings.    '  No  more  time  talkee/  says  the  ol<J  man.     '  My 


64  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

makee  new  panty/  he  says,  beginning  to  peel  off. 
'  My  go  walkee-walkee/ 

"  *  You  do  ? '  says  my  friend.  He  jumps  up  and 
turns  the  old  man  the  color  of  rawhide.  '  I'll  heap 
damn  foolee  you/  he  shouts.  He  leans  over  the  table 
and  picks  up  the  old  man  by  the  shreds  of  his  breeches. 
*  You'll  take  a  hop,  ye  blitherin'  Chinee  toad ! '  says 
my  friend.  He  lifts  old  Mama  up  and  brings  him 
down  on  the  table  like  a  bag  of  bedsprings,  with  the 
old  man  blowing  a  police  whistle  at  the  top  of  his 
lungs.  '  Hold  on ! '  I  says  to  my  friend.  '  We  don't 
want  to  be  crowding  the  police  station.'  The  whole 
of  the  tannery  and  a  hotel  and  a  sausage  factory  spills 
up  on  the  roof  to  take  a  hand;  but  they  didn't  make 
us  feel  homesick.  My  friend  grabs  up  the  hot  chop 
suey  off  the  stove.  *  The  first  one  of  ye  gets  a  soup- 
ticket  in  the  face/  says  he.  '  Stand  away  or  I'll  wipe 
him  all  over  ye ! '  says  I,  waving  the  old  man  at  'em. 
'  You  pay  me  four  bits ! '  shouts  the  old  man,  through 
the  police  whistle.  *  Keep  cool ! '  says  I.  I  hands  him 
out  a  ten  dollar  gold  piece.  '  Make  change ! '  says  I, 
watching  him  close.  The  old  devil  pretends  to 
tremble  all  over.  He  reaches  down  inside  a  tea-com- 
forter and  counts  out  ten  silver  dollars  and  one  four 
bit  piece.  My  friend  grabbed  'em  out  of  my  hand  and 
run  down  the  stairs,  and  I  found  him  on  the  sidewalk 
laughing  to  split  himself. 

"  '  He  took  your  ten  dollar  piece  and  give  you  back 
ten  dollars  and  a  half/  says  my  friend. 


A    VISIT    TO   CHAN   ROW  65 

"And  that's  what  I'm  talking  about,"  said  the 
sailor.  "  Devil  a  one  of  them  dollars  would  any  one 
take  in  Chinatown.  We  took  one  into  the  Sub- 
Treasury  and  there's  the  way  they  give  it  back.  We 
tried  to  get  up  to  that  roof  again,  but  we  met  a  heavy 
door.  If  you  want  to  get  ahead  of  a  Chinee,  you're 
too  ambitious,"  he  gathered  his  coin. 

Kendry  mused  over  his  torn  newspaper. 

"  Who's  making  counterfeit  dollars  in  Chinatown?  " 
he  said. 

"  Machinery,  capital — private  capital,"  said  the 
Pole.  "  There  should  be  no  private  capital ;  then  there 
would  be  no  private  business  and  no  private  profit; 
and  no  crime,  no  misery !  " 

"  Socialism,"  said  Kendry.  "  It  would  all  come 
back  to  brains  and  energy.  You  can't  distribute  those 
pro  rata" 

"  Capitalism ! "  retorted  the  Pole.  "  I  see  you 
know  who  I  am,  sir,"  he  said  with  assurance,  to  which 
Kendry  could  but  stare.  "  I  know  who  you  are,  too. 
We  are  separated  by  several  millions  of  dollars.  We 
may  both  live  to  be  nearer  together,  sir."  He  bore 
the  pale  certainty  of  one  who  believed  himself  a 
prophet.  His  nose  was  straight  and  finely  molded, 
with  the  transparency  of  skin  that  told  of  some  lurk- 
ing disease.  "  You  could  go  into  Chinatown  to-night 
and  with  your  money  you'd  have  the  power  to  crush 
that  counterfeiting  out,"  he  shrugged,  "  but  I  fancy 
you  have  urgent  business  elsewhere." 


66  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

"  I  have  urgent  business,"  Kendry  rose.  "  These 
things  are  the  province  of  the  secret-service  agents." 

At  the  cashier's  desk  the  little  man  with  the  ears 
caught  up  to  him.  "  You  are  Mr.  Kendry,"  he  said, 
for  its  effect.  He  noted  Kendry's  acceptance  of  his 
name,  then  let  himself  out  ahead  of  Kendry,  and  dis- 
appeared down  a  dark  street,  his  ears  looming.  Ken- 
dry  was  thinking  of  counterfeit  dollars.  A  man  who 
supplied  the  necessary  metals  to  the  other  conspira- 
tors, and  who  had  fallen  out  with  them,  might  find 
himself  in  the  position  of  Arthur  Paulter,  given  de- 
tails which  Kendry  could  invent.  If  so,  Paulter  ought 
to  be  imprisoned,  and  his  being  where  he  ought  to  be 
would  remove  his  baneful  shadow  from  the  girl.  Ken- 
dry  started  for  Chinatown. 

That  quarter  lay  within  easy  distance  from  the 
banks,  the  greater  shops,  the  most  noted  region  of 
private  houses.  Kendry  entered  into  what,  but  for 
the  dull  minds  that  had  laid  out  the  city,  would  have 
been  a  locality  of  extraordinary  picturesqueness.  The 
streets  which  lay  at  right  angles  to  the  steep  hillside 
ran  upon  practical  levels ;  but  the  streets  which  climbed 
the  hills,  ignoring  the  experience  of  all  other  coun- 
tries in  all  times,  took  for  the  most  part  a  grade  im- 
possible to  horses  and  cut  the  town  into  a  deadly 
monotony  of  rectangles.  The  easy  ascent,  the  broken 
lines,  the  varied  shapes,  the  longer  vistas  which  the 
hills  might  have  yielded  to  men  of  finer  susceptibili- 
ties— all  the  mystery  and  charm  to  which  a  man  turns 


A    VISIT    TO    CHAN   KOW  67 

in  disillusionment  from  the  New  World's  game — these 
had  been  precluded,  perhaps  forever,  by  the  wax-eyed 
pioneer  with  his  square  and  straight-edge.  But  he 
could  not  set  the  lines  in  other  dimensions;  and  once 
one  crossed  into  the  Oriental  sphere,  the  upright  lines, 
the  smugness,  the  clinging  to  a  state  of  some  repair, 
gave  way  to  irregularities  and  indentations,  to  bal- 
conies, shelter  excrescences,  all  softened  by  an  unar- 
rested  decay;  whence  in  the  mass  each  surface  in 
every  free  direction  took  on  a  variety,  a  stimulating 
interest  for  the  eye,  to  which  all  the  operations  of  the 
Chinese  life  lent  themselves  in  harmony.  The  sallow 
despondency  of  color  without  the  quarter,  changed 
to  frequent  surfaces  of  neglected  greens  and  reds  and 
yellows  that  once  had  been  vivid  and  raw,  but  now 
grew  mingled  and  softer,  stained  by  weather  and  dark- 
ened by  smoke.  The  tourist,  pausing  at  the  dingy 
window  panes,  the  warped  boards,  the  blackened 
bricks  against  which  the  bright  red  Chinese  paper 
inscriptions  toned,  perhaps  muttered  his  shock  at  the 
dirt,  the  dilapidation,  the  loss.  For  Kendry,  the 
moment  he  crossed  the  dividing  line  his  three  invited 
senses  were  seized  by  the  unrelieved  fascination  the 
quarter  had  ever  held  for  him.  He  took  to  a  darker 
alley,  out  of  his  way,  but  plunging  him  into  the  middle 
of  things.  It  was  perhaps  the  safest  place  in  San 
Francisco  for  a  white  man  to  be  alone  if  the  hour  were 
late,  filled  though  its  history  was  with  death  and 
tragedy  for  its  denizens.  It  had  the  felicity  of  leading 


68  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

into  another  alley,  so  that  he  walked  without  seeing 
interminably  before  him.  The  squeal  of  the  fiddle, 
the  clash  of  the  cymbals  and  the  rattling  of  a  snake- 
skin  drum,  came  to  him  elusively  from  some  upper 
story,  whence  no  light  appeared.  The  sing-song  in- 
tonement  of  the  language  issued  along  with  smoky 
smells  of  muffled  interiors.  Kendry  came  back  into 
the  main  street,  thence  ascended  the  hill  to  the  edge 
of  the  quarter,  and  entered  a  narrow  cul  de  sac  of 
no  savory  reputation.  At  its  blind  end  he  stopped 
before  a  wooden  structure,  which  slanted  on  its  foun- 
dations in  moribund  remembrance  of  another  race 
and  of  better  days.  It  bore  nothing  to  suggest  an 
occupancy ;  only  the  thick  grime  on  the  window  panes 
prevented  the  one  street  light  from  shining  within. 
The  house  was  dark,  and  decayed  to  a  degree  where 
one  might  on  every  point  consult  one's  safety  before 
going  within.  Under  the  single  window  next  the 
door  was  an  opening  in  the  sidewalk,  closed  by  wooden 
gratings.  .One  of  these  Kendry  raised  and  showed 
some  dusty  steps  leading  to  a  heavy  wooden  portal 
with  a  tiny  opening  in  it.  He  had  never  spoken  to  any 
one  about  this  hole.  He  pushed  the  blade  of  his  pen- 
knife into  it,  and  an  electric  bell  rang  faintly  in  the 
distance.  Feet  presently  scuffled  along  the  cement 
floor  and  addressed  him  in  Chinese.  Kendry  told  his 
name  and  the  feet  scuffled  away  without  response. 

He  waited  in  patience,  breathing  the  musty  odor  of 
the  basement,  his  head  on  the  level  of  the  deserted 


A    VISIT    TO   CHAN   KOW  69 

alley  and  his  eyes  curiously  up  to  the  clean,  contrast- 
ing sky  with  its  stars.  The  feet  scuffled  back,  the  door 
swung  open  and  Kendry  stepped  down  into  the  semi- 
darkness.  His  guide  barred  the  door  and  led  the 
way  beneath  the  rotten  rafters.  They  came  into  a 
corridor  beneath  another  building.  Here  the  parti- 
tions no  longer  leaned  in  far  decay,  but  were  of  newly 
painted  tongue  and  groove.  Stairs  led  them  to  a 
ground-floor  corridor,  wider  and  more  lighted,  with 
evidences  of  life  and  activity  which  came  to  Kendry's 
eyes  only  in  the  quick  closing  of  doors  as  he  passed. 
He  crossed  a  tiny  garden  surrounded  by  balconies 
hung  with  lighted  red  silk  shellacked  lanterns  and  with 
a  dwarf  pine  at  its  center  and  with  Chinese  lilies  in 
rusty  copper  urns.  He  entered  a  room  of  which  the 
walls  and  ceilings  were  covered  with  intricate  carvings 
in  red-lacquered  wood  against  red  silk.  Its  chairs 
and  tables  were  of  like  carving,  their  seats  and  tops 
of  marble.  The  servant  in  the  two  scanty  cotton 
garments,  motioned  him  to  ascend  the  stairs,  whence 
the  fumes  of  opium  came,  mixed  with  tobacco  smoke 
and  with  the  deep  tones  of  a  man  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion. Kendry  was  met  there  by  the  great  Chan  Kow. 
Chan  Kow  moved  forward  with  a  smile  like  that 
of  the  sun  pictured  in  its  most  benevolent  mood.  His 
step  shook  the  building.  He  approached  six  feet  in 
height  and  his  fleshiness  taxed  a  frame  that  was  heavy 
in  proportion.  His  head,  shaven  to  the  very  cuticle 
save  for  the  roots  of  his  thick  cue,  was  a  huge  ball 


70  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

from  which  his  flat  nose  barely  protruded,  and  which 
the  sockets  of  his  eyes  did  not  noticeably  indent.  He 
had  started  his  career  clinging  to  the  hand-bars  of  a 
Canton  man-power  river  boat,  in  common  with  sixty 
others,  who  thrust  their  feet  against  the  treads  of  the 
mechanism  that  revolved  its  stern-wheel.  Now  he 
wore  bracelets  of  costly  jade  and  a  ring  of  jade  and 
gold  and  a  number  of  garments  of  sheer  silk  imported 
from  Pekin  rather  than  from  Canton.  The  nails  of 
his  little  fingers  curved  out  in  crescents  two  inches 
long.  His  manner,  greeting  the  son  of  a  friend  by 
whose  benefits  Chan  Kow  had  enabled  his  extraordi- 
nary rise  in  America,  was  that  of  a  prince,  for  its 
ease,  its  urbanity,  its  confidence  in  the  entertainment 
his  guest  would  receive. 

"  You  boy — long  time  no  see — what  for?  "  he  sang 
deeply,  through  his  thick  lips. 

He  turned  to  the  little  man  with  sharp  eyes  and  a 
thin  inviting  smile,  who  sat  at  the  table  where  the  two 
had  dined  at  length,  in  the  intervals  between  their 
tobacco  and  opium.  Chan  Kow  spoke  a  few  words  in 
Chinese  which  caused  the  older  man  to  rise  and  gra- 
ciously to  nod.  There  was  an  account  book  and  ink 
brushes  on  the  table  between  their  chairs;  there  were 
long  and  delicately  wrappered  Havanas,  and  a  bottle 
which  proved  a  taste  educated  beyond  the  boundaries 
of  the  Middle  Kingdom.  Evidently  the  two  were 
cronies.  Chan  Kow  led  Kendry  to  a  chair  and  gently 
pushed  him  on  to  it.  The  big  man's  affectionate  pat  on 


A    VISIT    TO    CHAN    ROW  71 

his  shoulder,  his  standing  back  and  surveying  Kendry 
critically  with  twinkling  eyes,  while  he  offered  him 
refreshment,  flattered  the  young  man. 

"  Your  skin  pretty  good — all  same  baby,"  said 
Chan  Kow.  "  Number  one  shoulders,  all  same  your 
f adder,"  he  continued,  with  fine  approval,  his  face 
illuminated  with  paternal  kindness.  "  What  you  come 
see  old  man  fathead  for  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  very  wise  man,  Mr.  Chan,"  said  Ken- 
dry,  with  confidence,  "  and  I  came  to  find  out  what 
you  know  about  a  fortune  teller  named  Ah  Ma  and 
about  a  man  named  Arthur  Paulter  and  about  some- 
body who  is  making  counterfeit  dollars  in  China- 
town." 

He  could  not  distinguish  the  process,  but  as  he 
spoke  there  was  a  transformation  of  the  atmosphere 
of  the  room.  The  eyes  of  the  two  Chinese  had 
sought  for  a  brief  moment  the  book  between  them  on 
the  table.  Then  every  sign,  either  of  receptivity,  of 
understanding,  or  of  hospitality,  had  faded  from 
their  faces,  like  the  drowning  of  a  lighted  wick.  Ken- 
dry  became  intensely  aware  of  the  ebony  carvings,  of 
the  glimmer  of  the  red  lanterns  of  the  balcony,  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  sitting  on  a  chair  without  a  back. 
The  blue  smoke  of  his  cigar  curled  up  before  the  faces 
of  two  strangers,  whose  fixed  silence  was  like  that  of 
carvings  in  wood. 


CHAPTER    V 

A   SOURCE)    OF    INFORMATION 

As  their  blankness  continued  Kendry's  abashment 
verged.  Despite  the  good-will  and  respect  he  had 
always  kept  for  Chan  Kow,  there  figured  the  racial 
equation  with  its  burden  of  some  contempt.  More- 
over, their  attitude  antagonized  his  purpose  and  made 
him  suspect  that  if  they  wished  to  avoid  this  subject 
they  had  a  purpose  hostile  to  his  own.  If  it  succeeded, 
they  would  put  him  to  naught,  and  he  possibly  would 
become  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  Mary  Eastwood  and 
would  merit  that  charge  of  immaturity  she  delighted 
to  convey  to  him.  His  resentment  determined  him  to 
remain  as  motionless,  as  expressionless,  as  they,  for 
as  long  as  they  should  choose.  But  he  was  in  a  fever, 
while  within  the  two  older  men  the  colder  current  of 
a  mental  process  ran.  Kendry  set  his  teeth  and 
fastened  his  eyes  on  Chan  Kow's  head,  as  if  to  bore 
a  hole  into  that  impressive  sphere.  Chan  Kow's  eyes 
slowly  moved  along  the  ebony  of  the  walls,  the  pale 
blue  bowls  of  porcelain,  the  benign  image  of  Kwannon 
above  his  altar,  to  the  divan  where  his  smoking- 
utensils  lay.  It  was  a  matted  surface  in  an  alcove 
backed  by  a  black  silk  banner  with  a  gold  embroidered 

72 


A    SOURCE    OF   INFORMATION  73 

dragon.  As  Chan  Kow  went  thoughtfully  toward  the 
divan,  Kendry  pondered  perforce  on  the  things  ironi- 
cal, sarcastic,  coldly  superior,  he  might  say  to  cause 
vibration  in  the  stilled  air.  The  difficulty  of  a  choice 
caused  him  to  bring  out  roundly: 

"What's  the  matter?" 

Chan  Kow  sat  musing  on  the  divan  and  took  no 
effect  from  this  speech.  "  Some  people  say  somebody 
make  bad  money,  Chinatown,"  he  slowly  said,  look- 
ing out  over  the  balconies.  "  I  don'  know." 

He  leaned  on  his  elbow  and  took  up  a  carved  box 
of  gray  horn  from  among  many  articles  chased  and 
inlaid  with  gold.  He  began  to  dabble  in  it  with  a 
smoking  needle.  "  You  sit  down  close,"  he  pointed 
to  a  stool  near  him.  The  little  man  had  noiselessly 
departed  by  way  of  the  balcony.  Chan  Kow  clapped 
his  hands  for  his  servant,  who  shut  the  glass  doors  to 
the  balcony  and  closed  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  The  old  man  twirled  the  needle  between  his 
thumb  and  forefinger  and  drew  forth  a  sticky  mass 
of  opium  from  the  box.  He  revolved  it  slowly  over 
the  flame  of  a  little  nut-oil  lamp;  the  opium  bubbled 
and  decreased  in  size,  giving  off  an  agreeable  odor  as 
of  roasting  peanuts.  The  dim  light  of  the  room,  its 
quiet  and  the  appeal  to  his  nostrils,  had  some  soothing 
effect  upon  Kendry's  senses. 

"  Paulter,"  Chan  Kow  murmured  to  the  flame.  It 
proved  his  dwelling  still  on  Kendry's  queries.  The 
opium  had  shrunk  to  the  size  of  a  pea.  Chan  Kow 


74  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

took  up  his  flat-bowled  pipe  with  the  tiny  hole  at  the 
center.  He  held  the  pea  to  the  bowl  and  the  bowl 
to  the  flame,  then  drew  three  long  breaths  through 
the  thick  ivory  mouthpiece.  Then  he  set  down  the 
pipe. 

"  Why  you  don't  like  that  Paulter?  " 

"  I  don't  like  any  man  I  can't  trust,"  said  Kendry, 
not  unwilling  Chan  Kow  should  apply  this  equally 
to  himself. 

"  What  more  reason  ?  "  said  Chan  Kow. 

"  The  whole  of  my  reasons  would  be  a  little  hard 
for  a  Chinese  to  understand,"  said  Kendry,  with  some 
coolness. 

"  Alors,  mon  His,  paries  franqais! "  said  Chan  Kow. 
He  had  spent  years  profitable  to  his  mind  in  the  French 
Concession  at  Shanghai. 

"It  isn't  Chinese  and  it  isn't  French,  it's  myself/' 
said  Kendry.  "  I  have  something  in  here  " — he  tapped 
his  forehead — "  it's  something  like  a  religion ;  it's 
what  I  believe ;  what  I  want  to  do.  And  I'm  going  to 
do  it.  When  people  look  as  though  they'd  try  to  stop 
me,  it  boils  my  heart,  Mr.  Chan." 

Chan  Kow  tapped  his  own  broad  forehead.  "  Chan 
Kow  too  young — eh?  Chan  Kow  cervelle:  too  nar- 
row— eh  ?  No  can  sabbee  ?  "  he  smiled. 

"  I  should  be  more  anxious  to  tell,"  said  Kendry, 
"  if  you  hadn't  blown  out  the  light  of  your  coun- 
tenance the  moment  I  asked  about  Paulter.  You 
shut  down  as  if  you  were  some  small  shopkeeper 


A    SOURCE    OF    INFORMATION  75 

and  a  white  man  had  come  to  poke  into  your  private 
affairs." 

"  All  same  black  heart,  eh  ?  "  Chan  Kow  faced  him 
good-naturedly.  "  Your  father — what  he  did  for 
me  ?  "  he  said,  with  sudden  intenseness.  "  S'pose  I 
don't  ever  knew  him — what  Chan  Kow,  this  night?" 
He  took  up  a  pinch  of  tobacco  ashes.  "  Chan  Kow 
that ! "  he  answered  deeply,  sifting  the  ashes  between 
his  ringers.  "  I  am  your  friend,"  he  said  in  the  good 
French  he  kept  for  his  more  serious  or  more  formal 
moods.  The  change  from  the  Chinatown  English 
dialect,  with  its  vulgar  intonations  and  its  slang,  drawn 
from  the  streets,  lifted  him  into  keeping  with  his  rich 
surroundings.  "  When  Chan  Kow  is  a  friend  you 
have  his  heart  and  his  pistol  to  play  with.  You  are 
without  experience  of  men  and  their  motives.  I  have 
not  denied  you.  I  was  a  servant  when  your  father 
gave  me  my  first  thousand  dollars.  They  saved  me 
the  best  ten  years  of  my  life.  I  was  the  best  servant 
your  father  ever  had;  to  get  on  without  me  was  a 
greater  generosity  than  the  money.  Paries,  mon 
tils!  " 

His  straight  gaze  won  Kendry's  heart.  Kendry 
began  to  tell  his  adventure  on  the  mountain.  When 
he  came  to  his  first  mention  of  the  girl,  Chan  Kow 
exclaimed  with  deep  satisfaction : 

"  Those  cloisonne-blue  eyes,  that  brass  hair,  that 
silky  skin,  that  willow  waist !  Hah !  "  he  nodded. 

Kendry  continued,  mystified.     Chan  Kow  appeared 


76  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

to  be  listening;  but  possibly  his  thoughts  no  longer 
followed  so  closely  the  course  of  the  story.  His  hand 
strayed  to  a  piece  of  white  chiffon  he  had  noticed  on 
the  divan.  He  held  it  before  his  eyes  as  if  to  test  its 
translucency.  Then  he  smoothed  and  folded  its  ob- 
long shape  carefully  and  stuck  into  it  a  hat-pin  with  an 
American  military  button  for  a  head.  When  Kendry 
reached  the  stage  of  his  adventure  where  he  had  seen 
the  light  in  the  fog,  Chan  Kow  interrupted,  with  no 
great  relevance: 

"You  don't  like  cloisonne  eye,  that  brass  hair,  that 
silky  skin,  that  willow  waist !  "  he  asserted. 

"  But  I  do !  "  said  Kendry.  It  vexed  him  to  have 
these  conclusions  made  before  the  facts  were  in. 
"  Since  you  know  her,  I'll  tell  you  the  idea  I  have  for 
my  career  and  how  it  concerns  her." 

"Miss ?"  said  Chan  Kow. 

"  I  don't  know  her  name  and  I  don't  know  where 
she  lives;  but  I'm  going  to  find  out,"  said  Kendry 
grimly.  "  Moreover " 

Chan  Kow  held  up  his  hand  above  his  head.  "  Let 
Chan  Kow  talk,"  he  said  in  French.  "Chan  Kow 
has  been  in  many  places,  up  and  down  the  scale  of  life ; 
he  has  known  many  men  and  many  women,  of  many 
colors  of  skin.  First,  let  me  write." 

He  filled  Kendry's  glass  and  sat  apart  for  some 
time,  holding  in  his  heavy  fingers  the  brush  with  which 
he  could  make  the  most  delicate  variations  of  line. 
What  he  wrote  he  sealed  in  a  large  envelope  and  kept 


A    SOURCE    OF   INFORMATION  77 

in  his  hand.  He  came  and  sat  by  Kendry  and  poured 
himself  a  glass.  He  leaned  on  the  table  and  looked 
across  it  with  the  kindliness  of  a  father. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  think  about  how  to  live," 
he  said,  "  but  I  think  all  men  are  made  the  same  inside. 
It  is  only  the  skin  and  the  hair  and  the  language  that 
are  different.  Jesu  talked  much  about  letting  every 
one  live  in  peace ;  but  he  was  negative  about  the  vital 
instincts,  the  natural  ambitions  that  keep  the  world 
a-going.  If  a  man  is  young  and  lusty  Jesu  will  tell 
him  what  not  to  do;  but  Confuce  will  tell  him  things 
that  he  must  do — things  I  don't  think  Jesu  ever 
thought  much  about.  Confuce  talked  sometimes 
about  the  positive  things  men  are  moved  to  do  by  the 
essence  of  their  being;  he  talked  about  family  life, 
about  paternal  and  filial  duties.  There  was  a  man 
named  Darwin;  he  was  not  a  Chinaman  and  not  a 
Jew.  He  told  about  the  chain  of  souls  and  bodies, 
which  comes  from  somewhere  and  goes  toward  some- 
where, no  one  knows,  but  always  with  a  little  change 
from  generation  to  generation,  and  this,  I  think 
toward  a  better  sort  of  world.  Many  nights  I  have 
read  his  writings  in  a  beautiful  French  translation. 
Perhaps  Jesu  and  Confuce  and  Darwin  together  knew 
more  than  any  separate  one  of  them.  I  think  that, 
taken  together,  they  reconcile  each  other,  For  Dar- 
win showed  you  why  it  is  wise  to  make  a  beautiful 
body,  and  the  reward  there  is  in  that;  he  taught  that 
there  was  visible  evidence  of  a  design  in  the — the 


78  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

great  mystery — I  cannot  say  it  well  except  in  my 
mother's  tongue.  And  Confuce,  centuries  before  him, 
taught  how  a  design  such  as  that  could  be  worked  out 
with  religious  zeal  by  a  system  of  continuous  family 
life;  a  life  which  I  am  sure  Jesu  would  approve  of. 
After  death,  they  will  not  ask  you  what  kind  of 
motions  you  made  with  your  hands  in  the  temple ;  they 
will  not  be  put  off  by  a  showing  of  candles  and  incense 
contributions;  they  will  go  down  into  your  deepest 
essence  and  your  secret  heart.  Confuce,  Jesu,  Dar- 
win. I  think  you  will  find  them  all  in  One — I  cannot 
explain;  but  sometimes  when  I  am  alone,  when  my 
eyes  look  at  these  walls  and  do  not  see  them,  and  my 
ears  do  not  hear,  then  it  comes  into  my  feeling — into 
my  soul  through  some  unknown  avenue,  that  this  is 
the  truth." 

Kendry  nodded.  "  It's  all  something  like  my  idea," 
he  said. 

Chan  Kow  laughed.  "  When  a  man  is  your  age, 
he  has  but  one  idea.  Your  father  is  dead ;  you  are  his 
only  son.  This  old  Chinaman,"  he  came  back  into 
the  jovial  English,  "  all  same  your  f adder !  Some  day 
you  come  see  me,  all  pink  face,  all  big  chest.  You 
tell  me :  '  I  got  a  wife ! — cloisonne  eye,  brass  hair, 
silky  skin,  willow  waist ! — I'm  a  man ! '  Then  I  tell 
you,  '  Not  yet  a  man,  my  Jack ! '  Then  some  more 
day  you  come  tell  me :  *  I  got  a  boy — number  one  boy ! 
— look  like  me! — ten  pound! — I  think  more  fine  than 
other  man's  baby ! ' "  Chan  Kow  rose  and  put  his 


A    SOURCE    OF   INFORMATION  79 

hand  on  Kendry's  shoulder.  "  Then  I  tell  you,  '  Jack, 
you're  a  man ! ' 

He  took  a  few  steps  and  turned  again  to  Kendry's 
curious  glance. 

"  Because  then  you  sabbee  Confuce,"  he  said ;  "  and 
then  you  begin  sabbee  Darwin;  and  then  you  begin 
catch  a  soul.  Bimeby  Jesu  take  that  soul.  But  this 
world  keep  that  boy  here.  This  world  made  o'  body 
and  soul.  You  don*  get  lazy;  you  got  take  care 
both." 

He  pressed  the  envelope  into  Kendry's  hand. 
"  Now,"  he  said  in  French,  "  you  will  forgive  my 
sending  you  off  ?  I  have  business.  You  saw  that  old 
man  with  the  fox  eyes  ?  "  he  whispered.  "  I  knew 
him  twenty  years  before  I  found  out,  by  accident, 
that  he  understands  English.  When  you  come  to  see 
me — not  soon,"  he  interjected,  tapping  the  envelope 
as  if  it  explained  this,  "  please  speak  French." 

He  pulled  up  his  silk  sleeves  and  bared  his  powerful 
forearm.  There  were  straps  buckled  to  it;  they  car- 
ried steel  clips  that  held  a  heavy  "  hatchet " — a  weapon 
forged  not  unlike  a  butcher's  cleaver.  "  No  one  but 
the  son  of  my  friend  knows  that  that  is  there,"  he 
smiled.  "  If  that  old  fox  ever  sees  it,  he  will  not 
remember !  Mebbe  some  day,"  he  laughed,  "  I  find 
out  him  sabbee  French  lingo ! " 

He  preceded  Kendry  to  the  door  that  opened  on  the 
little  garden.  The  servant  in  the  flapping  cotton 
breeches  reappeared.  Chan  Kow  remained  smiling 


80  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

in  the  faint  light  of  the  lanterns,  ponderous,  elegant  in 
his  silks  and  his  snowy  socks,  calmly  confident  in  a 
purpose  that  had  evolved  for  him  out  of  their  inter- 
view. Kendry  departed  through  the  corridor;  again 
the  rooms  closed  at  his  approach  and  opened  when  he 
had  passed.  At  the  end  of  the  musty  passage,  be- 
neath the  rotten  rafters  in  the  cellar,  the  servant  held 
the  door.  Kendry  issued  into  the  deserted  street. 
The  door  and  the  grating  silently  closed  after  him. 
He  made  haste  out  of  the  uninviting  alley  to  find  a 
light  under  which  he  could  examine  the  contents  of 
the  envelope. 


CHAPTER   VI 

MEETING  A   HARD   FACT 

IT  was  late  and  it  was  beginning  to  rain.  Every  shop 
door  and  window  in  Chinatown  was  sealed  with 
wooden  shutters.  He  stood  under  a  street  light  and 
sheltered  Chan  Kow's  brush  work  with  his  hand. 
There  were  but  two  words  in  writing.  The  rest  was 
in  the  nature  of  a  map,  tracing  a  route  from  an  un- 
named point  through  many  streets,  by  many  turns,  to 
a  black  rectangle  labeled,  "  Ethel  Marr." 

Kendry  was  for  some  moments  examining  it,  till  the 
rain  threatened  the  ink.  Some  one  came  up  slowly 
behind  him  and  passed  slowly  by,  almost  touching  his 
elbow.  It  was  the  little  man  with  the  big  ears.  Ken- 
dry  set  out  for  his  rooms,  careless  of  the  drenching  he 
began  to  undergo.  Did  this  map  show  the  way  to  the 
house  where  lived  the  girl  with  the  "  brass  hair,  the 
cloisonne  eyes*' — and  was  her  name  Ethel  Marr? 
That  was  the  plausible  explanation  of  Chan  Kow's 
somewhat  too  presumptive  wisdom.  Kendry  spread 
the  long  brown  paper  on  his  table  while  he  was  put- 
ting on  dry  garments.  It  was  past  midnight,  but  he 
had  no  thought  of  sleep.  He  clothed  himself  for  the 
rain  and  started  out  again,  for  what  satisfaction  of 

81 


82  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

his  roused  hope  there  might  be  at  such  time  of  night. 
The  route,  he  could  take  for  granted,  began  at  the 
entrance  to  Chan  Kow's  in  the  cul  de  sac.  It  was 
necessary  to  return  there  and  follow  the  streets  and 
passages  with  care,  lest  one  be  missed  and  the  thread 
be  lost. 

Every  crossing  was  indicated,  each  in  its  proportion- 
ate width,  by  a  delicate  handling  of  the  brush.  The 
lay  of  the  streets  near  Chan  Kow's  fitted  the  map. 
The  route  led  him  by  the  quickest  way  to  the  top  of 
California  Street  hill,  to  where  he  could  see  the  East- 
wood house  and  its  rows  of  dark  windows.  It  took  him 
down  through  the  Latin  Quarter,  by  a  circuit  which 
had  kept  out  of  Chinatown  at  the  cost  of  considerable 
walking  and  climbing.  It  seemed  to  urge  Kendry  to 
avoid  Chinatown,  eager  though  Chan  Kow  might  be- 
lieve him  to  reach  his  destination.  He  picked  his  way 
through  puddles,  with  the  map  fluttering  in  the  glare 
of  occasional  electric  lights.  Night  life  among  the 
Greeks  and  Latins  had  diminished  to  a  few  gather- 
ings behind  the  painted  panes  of  the  wine  shops,  and 
the  wet  drizzle  swept  through  lonely  thoroughfares. 
Now  he  attacked  one  of  the  steepest  hills  in  the  city, 
where  the  grass  grew  in  the  center  of  the  uneven 
street  and  the  sidewalk  was  of  planks,  with  wooden 
cleats  to  give  a  stable  footing.  He  turned,  toward 
the  top,  to  pass  an  ascending  row  of  humble  wooden 
houses  of  a  story  and  a  half,  each  with  a  short  section 
of  level  sidewalk,  connected  with  its  neighbors  by 


MEETING    A    HARD    FACT  83 

irregular  and  uncertain  steps.  He  stumbled  up  these 
steps  in  a  rain  that  was  driven  under  his  umbrella  by 
the  increased  freeway  of  the  wind.  The  road  had 
never  been  graded  nor  known  a  wagon's  wheel;  a 
muddy  path  wound  over  its  hummocks  and  projecting 
bowlders.  Suddenly,  beneath  a  gaslight,  the  road 
was  stopped  by  an  iron  chain  upheld  by  leaning  stan- 
chions, at  the  edge  of  a  precipice  that  dropped  some 
two  or  three  hundred  feet.  He  was  approaching  the 
end.  He  went  along  a  narrow  path  near  the  edge;  it 
looked  over  a  less  frequented  part  of  the  water-front, 
where  the  slanting  downpour  hid  the  masts  of  the  ship- 
ping and  the  gray  roofs  of  the  warehouses,  and  the 
lights  reflected  in  the  ruffled  ponds  of  an  unpaved 
teamway.  Close  to  the  brink  of  this  cliff  of  solid 
rock  and  thin  stratum  of  soil,  a  row  of  houses  stood, 
of  ancient  wood,  of  varied  sadness,  gloomily,  with 
their  backs  to  the  rain.  He  had  met  no  one  since  he 
had  left  the  foot  of  the  hill.  He  counted  the  houses 
from  the  corner.  The  fourth  was  marked  on  the 
map,  "  Ethel  Marr." 

It  was  a  low  gable  roof,  with  a  single  window  in  its 
upper  story.  Its  eaves  and  the  overhang  of  its  nar- 
row porch  were  festooned  with  exaggerated  jig-saw 
work  that  once  had  been  painted  green.  A  single  step 
rose  from  the  path  to  the  veranda  with  its  door  and 
its  two  French  windows.  Kendry  looked  from  under 
his  umbrella  at  a  slit  of  light  that  came  from  the 
second  story.  It  was  the  only  light  in  the  row,  which 


84  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

soon  ended  at  a  turn  of  the  cliff.  The  wind  which 
swung  the  creaking  chain  between  the  stanchions 
swayed  the  shade,  not  quite  drawn,  against  the  sash 
of  the  half-opened  window.  That  window,  Kendry 
reflected  with  increased  conviction,  looked  across  the 
bay  to  the  mountain.  It  made  it,  for  him,  more  likely 
that  Chan  Kow  had  aided  him  where  his  pursuit  of 
the  afternoon  had  brought  him  to  naught.  He  could 
hear  a  voice — that  of  a  woman  no  longer  young — per- 
haps her  mother.  He  was  startled  and  lowered  his 
umbrella,  at  the  raising  of  the  shade.  The  light  from 
within  glistened  on  his  wet  boots.  She  who  spoke 
was  adjusting  the  window. 

"  You  knew  his  name  and  you  wouldn't  tell 
Arthur !  "  she  complained.  "  You  wouldn't  have  told 
him  anything  if  he  hadn't — "  The  voice  ceased  and 
the  shadow,  whose  arms,  raising  the  window,  had 
fallen  across  the  ground  where  he  looked,  stayed 
stationary.  Kendry  knew  that  he  was  being  surveyed 
with  more  than  curiosity;  the  conviction  that  this 
plaintive  voice  was  from  the  mother  of  his  young 
woman  of  the  mountain  heightened  his  discomfiture. 
He  drew  his  umbrella  closer  to  his  head  and  moved 
off  whence  he  had  come,  with  a  relief  when  he  had 
rounded  the  corner. 

There  had  been  an  interval  between  the  older 
woman's  accusation  and  the  time  when  a  response  to 
it  might  follow;  but  there  had  been  no  reply.  It 
suited  Kendry's  notion  as  to  what  part  Ethel  Marr 


MEETING    A    HARD    FACT  85 

would  play  in  a  passage  where  a  girl  of  lighter  tongue 
would  have  been  instantaneous  with  a  sharp  rejoinder. 
Dumb  suffering,  he  believed,  would  be  the  character- 
istic of  the  girl  who  had  looked  upon  him  with  such 
silent  doubt ;  but  a  deep  current  would  run  within  her, 
capable  of  rising  to  one  decisive  act  of  resentment. 
Taking  the  hour,  the  mother's  words,  the  girl's  silence, 
Kendry  thought  he  divined  the  scene  within  that  upper 
chamber.  He  ruminated  upon  it  as  he  balanced  on 
the  slippery  cleats  of  the  descent.  The  girl  was  alone 
in  her  abhorrence  of  Paulter.  The  mother,  with  her 
querulous  voice,  her  smaller  figure,  held  but  feeble 
aims  in  a  world  where  her  daughter,  with  her  youth, 
her  strength,  her  beauty,  must  vaguely  feel  great  pos- 
sibilities. But  the  man  and  the  older  woman  spoke  to 
her  with  authority,  in  propositions  she  could  refute 
only  by  the  instinct  struggling  up  from  a  lonely  heart. 
The  interior,  behind  that  dreary  product  of  hammer 
and  jig-saw,  contrasted  with  the  one  in  which  he  pres- 
ently was  musing  about  these  things  before  his  fire. 
His  cast  of  the  Pyrrhic  Dancers  looked  from  above  his 
mantel  across  to  the  few  photographs  he  had  selected 
from  the  picture  galleries  of  the  world.  They  en- 
joyed its  wide  expanse  of  shadowy  tinted  wall  in  a 
restful  change  from  the  turmoil  beyond  the  windows. 
He  drew  two  other  armchairs  to  the  fire,  one  on  either 
side  of  him.  It  suited  him  to  imagine  a  meeting  of 
Mary  Eastwood  and  Ethel  Marr.  This  given,  his 
planned  arrangement  would  of  itself  come  about,  with- 


86  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

out  a  stimulating  word  from  him.  The  soft  complete 
chiseling  of  Miss  Marr's  head  made  other  women 
seem  unfinished.  To  observe  the  subtleties  of  its  lines 
was  to  look  into  the  better  future  of  the  race  on  its 
way  to  perfection.  Mary,  as  her  friends  in  town 
would  say,  would  be  "  dying "  to  model  her.  He 
agreeably  pictured  a  transaction  between  the  girl  and 
Mary,  which  should  alter  all  the  life  of  the  one  and  by 
its  benevolent  results  be  a  gracious  influence  on  the 
other.  Their  actual  interview  would  have  to  be  pre- 
ceded by  no  little  delicacy  in  winning  the  confidence  of 
the  mother  and  of  the  girl ;  but  he  should  succeed.  He 
comfortably  lay  back  in  his  chair.  The  music  of  the 
Pyrrhic  Dancers,  the  remembered  essence  of  the 
mountain  air,  the  glance  from  the  eyes  of  Ethel  Marr, 
were  of  a  unity  pleasant  to  contemplate.  He  sat  for 
a  long  time  looking  at  Ethel  Marr,  his  hand  on  the 
arm  of  Mary's  chair.  There  came  a  knock  on  his 
door ;  it  was  opened  by  Arthur  Paulter. 

Paulter's  hat  was  on ;  a  bundle  hung  on  his  finger. 
His  eye  swept  the  room,  then  fixed  on  Kendry  for 
whatsoever  he  might  choose  to  say  to  such  a  visit. 
Kendry  recovered  from  his  surprise. 

"  Good  evening,"  he  rose,  guessing  the  contents  of 
the  bundle.  But  he  had  shown  his  instinctive  re- 
pugnance at  Paulter's  type  of  face,  its  small  bright 
eyes  set  forward  on  high  cheek  bones,  its  long  nose 
that  began  heavily  and  finished  thinly  above  an 
unsymmetrical  mouth.  It  was  to  the  recognition  of 


MEETING    A    HARD    FACT  87 

this,  not  unexpected,  that  Paulter  replied,  with  ab- 
sence of  abashment,  jerking  his  explanatory  thumb : 

"  I  know  the  night  clerk  down  there." 

He  leisurely  laid  the  bundle  on  the  table.  "  That's 
your  coat,"  he  pointed.  "  Miss  Marr  says  thank  you. 
If  she  hadn't  got  rattled  she  wouldn't  have  taken  it. 
I  wasn't  going  to  hurt  her.  And  I  want  you  to 
understand  she  didn't  need  any  interference  from  any 
outsider,  and  she  don't  now." 

Kendry  felt  his  heart  stiffen.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  primitive  hostility  of  the  man.  Against  it 
he  brought  forward  a  civilized  diplomacy. 

"  Thanks  for  the  coat,"  he  said.  "  It's  wet  outside; 
sit  down  and  have  something,  Mr.  Paulter."  He 
wheeled  a  chair. 

"  That's  just  what  I  won't  do ! "  Paulter  came  back, 
without  stirring.  "  But  it's  what  I  gambled  you'd 
say  to  me.  Why?  Because  Ethel  Marr  is  the  hand- 
somest girl  in  California.  Take  any  one  of  your 
crowd  and  load  her  up  with  diamonds  to  the  guards; 
Ethel  Marr  has  got  'em  skinned  to  death! — and  you 
want  to  get  next.  That's  why  you  were  hanging 
'round  her  house  not  an  hour  ago."  He  noticed  Ken- 
dry's  flush.  "  I  came  here  to  tell  you  to  quit  it.  It 
don't  take  me  two  minutes  to  get  on  to  you  and  your 
game.  Now  you  just  cut  it  out ! "  he  waved  from 
the  wrist. 

Kendry  held  somewhat  uncertainly  to  the  back  of 
the  chair  in  front  of  him. 


88  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

"  What  do  you  think  my  game  is  ?  "  he  said,  as 
calmly  as  he  could.  Paulter  laughed  in  his  throat. 

"  '  What  do  I  think  it  is ! '  You  sneaked  up  in  the 
bushes  and  heard  me  say  '  Chinatown  ' — and  then  you 
piped  me  off  for  a  crook.  You  thought  you  saw  a 
dead  easy  graft  with  that  girl;  you  thought  you  had 
me  off  in  the  wet  woods  for  a  few!  Well,  Fm  here, 
ain't  I?  And  I  ain't  wearing  false  whiskers.  To- 
night you've  been  nosing  'round  Chinatown  trying  to 
get  wise  about  none  of  your  business.  I'll  take  care 
of  that.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  right  now,  leave  Ethel 
Marr  out  of  it.  Just  forget  her,  and  your  skin  will 
look  prettier  when  it's  mounted." 

Kendry's  diplomacy  thinned.  "  'I  don't  under- 
take to  forget  a  young  lady  for  whom  I  have  such 
an  abounding  respect,"  he  froze.  Paulter  immediately 
sat  himself  on  the  corner  of  the  table  and  swung  one 
leg  from  it. 

"You  don't!"  he  mocked.  "Til  tell  you  some- 
thing," he  pointed  two  fingers  stained  with  nicotine. 
"  I  know  your  game.  You're  rotten  with  money, 
and  you've  been  around  the  world  and  picked  up  a 
little  bag  of  tricks  you  think  you  can  hypnotize  a  girl 
with;  especially  if  that  girl  don't  run  with  your  own 
string.  If  you  can't  throw  your  switch,  I'm  the  man 
to  do  it  for  you !  " 

Kendry  fought  back  to  his  first  policy.  "  I  say,"  he 
demurred,  more  pleasantly,  "don't  you  think  it's  a 
trifle  barbarous  for  you  to  come  to  my  rooms  at  this 


MEETING    A    HARD    FACT  89 

time  of  night  and  assume  that  I'm  a  common  rounder  ? 
Be  reasonable !  " 

Merely  anger  added  itself  to  Paulter's  scorn.  "  You 
go  to  hell !  "  he  breathed,  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 
"  Just,  by  God,  as  your  kind  would  tell  her  to  go  to 
hell  the  minute  you  got  tired  of  her."  Kendry  held 
up  his  hands. 

"  You  don't  come  within  a  thousand  miles  of  what 
I  think  of  Miss  Marr,"  was  his  disdain.  "  You  ought 
to  treat  her  name  with  more  respect." 

Paulter  slid  off  the  table  and  stepped  in  front  of  the 
bulwark  made  by  Kendry's  chair.  "  I  didn't  come 
here  to  hear  you  talk,"  he  said,  with  one  high  shoulder 
forward.  "  I  came  here  for  you  to  hear  me  talk. 
That  girl  don't  want  to  see  you.  If  I  catch  you  'round 
her  house  again,  I'll  throw  you  off  the  cliff." 

He  stood  inviting  assault,  as  he  had  the  night  on 
the  mountain,  with  again  his  hand  thrust  in  the  pocket 
from  which  then  he  had  later  produced  a  pistol.  Ken- 
dry,  like  most  novices  in  such  encounters,  blanched. 

"  If  you  could,"  he  managed  to  draw  his  eye  back 
to  Paulter's,  "  you  wouldn't  look  very  well,  hanging 
by  that  short  neck."  Paulter  leaned  back  on  his 
heels. 

"  So  ?  "  he  chuckled.  "  How  many  men  have  hung 
for  murder  in  this  town  for  the  last  ten  years?  And 
how  many  murders  a  week  are  there?  Why,  I'd 
rather  take  my  chances  shooting  you  than  riding  on 
that  street-car  line  you  own  stock  in." 


90  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

"  Do  I  understand,"  Kendry  said,  between  his  dried 
lips,  "  that  if  you  see  me  approach  Miss  Marr's  house 
you'll  try  to  kill  me?"  Paulter  surveyed  him  with 
pleasurable  contempt. 

"  I  guess  you  do,"  he  said.  He  turned  toward  the 
door. 

"  Suppose  I  don't  choose  to  be  drawn  into  a  brawl 
with  you,"  said  Kendry ;  "  I  could  have  you  put  under 
bonds  to  keep  the  peace  for  that  threat." 

"  I  guess  you  could,"  said  Paulter,  his  hand  on  the 
knob.  "  But  if  you  get  a  bond  that'll  stop  a  bullet, 
it'll  be  the  first  one  ever  issued  in  this  part  of  the 
world.  I've  said  enough  to  suit  me.  If  you  want  to 
ride  down  Telegraph  Hill,  walk  up." 

He  stopped  to  search  the  effect  of  this  nonchalance. 
It  appeared  to  satisfy  him.  Through  the  mist  of  his 
anger,  Kendry  detected  an  advantage  in  that.  It 
made  him  respond,  after  a  moment : 

"  I'll  think  over  what  you've  said,  Mr.  Paulter." 

Paulter  waited,  weighing  this  speech.  It  was 
non-committal;  but  he  confronted  a  man  who,  by 
youth,  by  tastes,  and  by  experience,  was  not  his  equal 
in  such  a  broil.  He  gave  a  noiseless  laugh ;  his  foot- 
steps died  out  in  the  corridor. 

Kendry  stayed  holding  to  the  leather  top  of  his 
chair.  It  did  not  soothe  him  that  he  had  sacrificed 
as  little  of  his  pride  as  had  been  possible.  If  he  had 
started  to  throw  the  man  out  of  the  room,  he  was 
certain  that  he  would  have  been  held  back  at  the  pis- 


MEETING    A    HARD    FACT  91 

tol's  point  and  humbled  to  a  degree  he  could  not  bear 
to  think  of.  To  rush  in  and  to  be  shot  by  such  igno- 
minious hands,  would  have  been  folly  for  a  man  who 
believed  in  his  own  value  as  a  living  being  and  in  his 
capacity,  in  the  end,  to  overcome  so  limited  a  mind 
as  Paulter's.  But  Kendry  gripped  his  chair  with  the 
anguished  hardening  of  a  knot  about  his  heart.  He 
wanted  a  nobler  adversary.  Why  should  there  be 
in  the  world  such  a  quantity  as  Paulter?  Why 
should  such  a  worthless  strain,  struggling  to  survive 
through  a  girl  of  a  type  so  indispensable  to  the  world's 
betterment,  be  gifted  with  such  reckless  intensity? 

He  could  not  sleep.  The  incongruousness,  the  un- 
fairness, of  Paulter's  interjection,  smote  him  in  the 
exposed  spot,  the  helpless  side  a  man  of  more  delicate 
perceptions  cannot  defend  from  rude  antagonism.  It 
had  crashed  in  on  his  rich  dream  by  the  fireside,  his 
gentle  hopes  engendered  by  the  great  idea.  Then  he 
had  felt  that  he  had  brought  home  with  him  something 
of  the  spirit  of  the  mountain,  of  its  bracing  breeze,  its 
scented  zephyrs,  its  grand  aloofness  from  the  common 
wants.  Now  the  room  echoed  with  the  vulgar  laugh 
of  an  odious,  implacable  interloper,  who  jeered  at 
every  principle  John  Kendry  revered.  He  looked  at 
the  Pyrrhic  Dancers,  but  he  could  no  longer  enjoy 
them.  Something  of  the  City  stood  between ;  the  City 
that  was  any  city.  It  groveled  on  the  shore,  separated 
by  the  tide  from  those  loftier  slopes.  It  secreted  the 
poison  of  a  packed  death  struggle  of  the  myriads  for 


92  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

the  least  enduring  of  the  world's  rewards.  It  pro- 
truded its  venomous  tongue  at  him,  vaunting  a  per- 
manency equal  to  that  of  the  hills. 

He  paced  the  floor,  casting  up  the  account  of  his 
hopes.  He  was  not  certain  that  Mary  Eastwood  ever 
would  love  him.  He  was  not  certain  that  Ethel  Marr 
ever  would  confide  in  him.  He  was  not  certain  that 
her  mother  ever  would  receive  him.  The  only  thing 
certain  was,  that  to-morrow  he  should  present  himself 
at  the  house  on  the  brink. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE    HOUSE   ON   THE  BRINK 

AFTER  the  long  sleep  that  finally  came  Kendry  arose 
less  irritated.  Night  and  darkness  appeared  the 
stronger  elements  in  Paulter's  threats.  The  north 
wind — through  a  morning  sky  the  rain  had  washed  off 
every  suspended  particle — put  optimism  in  Kendry's 
heart.  When,  on  his  way  to  Telegraph  Hill  he  passed 
a  pawnshop  window,  full  of  deadly  weapons,  they 
made  more  ridiculous  the  thought  of  arming  himself. 
He  could  not  believe  that  a  man  would  confront  him 
with  a  pistol  in  the  open  street  without  preliminaries 
during  which,  now  that  he  knew  Paulter's  confirmed 
hatred  of  him,  the  odds  would  be  even.  With  Ethel 
Marr  once  persuaded  across  Mary  Eastwood's  thresh- 
old it  never  would  be  necessary  for  Kendry  to 
approach  Telegraph  Hill  again,  or  indeed,  if  he  strictly 
maintained  the  impersonal  character  of  his  interest 
in  Miss  Marr,  for  him  to  see  her  again.  At  Mary's 
she  would  discover  the  current  on  which  she  gently 
might  voyage  to  a  broader,  brighter  life;  and  by  a 
gradual  process  Paulter,  unable  to  follow  her,  would 
disappear.  It  was  improbable  that  Paulter  would  lie 
in  wait  for  him  at  noon ;  and  that  hour  would  give  to 

93 


94  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

Kendry's  visit  the  business  aspect  he  wished  her 
mother  to  note.  Those  minds  to  which  it  would  have 
seemed  heroic  for  him  to  seek,  for  the  emblazonment 
of  his  history,  a  violent  encounter  with  Paulter  at  Miss 
Marr's  door  never  would  have  conceived  the  idea  that 
was  bringing  him  there.  No  such  meeting,  howso- 
ever disastrous  to  Paulter,  could  be  so  sanely  satis- 
factory or  so  helpful  to  Kendry's  plans  as  an  easy 
avoidance  of  him.  Kendry  approached  the  steep 
through  a  busy  street  on  made  ground  that  in  the  days 
of  '49  had  been  bay  anchorage  for  the  Argonauts. 
From  the  beacon  point  of  those  times  the  hilltop  had 
been  changed  to  a  Sunday  resort  in  a  garden  sur- 
rounded by  a  wall.  The  promise  it  once  had  for  becom- 
ing a  fashionable  quarter  had  vanished  before  its 
crowds,  its  beer  and  the  growth  of  Chinatown  near 
one  foot  of  it.  Its  Sunday  vogue  had  diminished,  the 
long  glass  roof  of  its  casino  had  stayed  a  dead  land- 
mark, from  the  waters  of  the  Gate  the  wall  had 
crumbled.  The  casino  had  gone  the  way  of  all  wood 
and  glass  in  a  nocturnal  glory  of  huge  flames  lighting 
many  miles  of  land  and  water.  Now  its  site  lay  waste 
and  the  rest  of  the  hill  was  inhabited  almost  entirely 
by  Italians. 

Its  pines  and  cypresses  surviving  in  the  garden,  its 
remnants  of  coping,  its  stiff  inclines  and  changing 
foreground,  gave  some  reminiscence  of  the  mother- 
land. Many  of  the  houses  were  of  wood  unpainted, 
warping  in  the  sun;  two  of  its  sides  had  been  torn  to 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRINK  95 

abrupt  declivities  by  graders  and  quarrymen;  it  was 
like  a  stage  Italy,  unfortunately  seen  by  daylight  and 
lacking  in  reality.  Silent  night  dressed  it  with  an 
enormous  background  of  stars  and  glinting  water  and 
silhouettes  of  far  mountains  against  the  rising  moon; 
and  it  sank  to  mere  vantage  point.  But  on  a  gusty 
morning  after  a  rain  Kendry's  eyes  were  held  by  the 
scattered  weeds,  the  uncovered  yellow  wounds  in  the 
earth,  the  musty  spaces  of  gloom  beneath  the  under- 
pinnings of  houses  that,  roof  by  sill,  with  intermin- 
gling ashes  and  debris,  scrambled  up  from  the  noise 
and  ugliness  and  neglect  of  the  water  front. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  scene  that  depressed  Kendry; 
perhaps  it  was  something  weighing  on  his  subcon- 
sciousness.  He  saw  no  man.  The  flat  spaces  were 
full  of  young  children  who  smiled  up  to  him,  playing 
unguarded  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  He  followed  the 
chain  rail  along  the  brink  and  stood  before  the  house 
of  Mrs.  Marr  and  her  daughter.  Its  inner  silence  and 
the  swept  area  before  it  distinguished  it  from  the  rest ; 
but  the  curtains  at  the  French  windows  on  either  side 
of  the  door  were  of  cheap  Nottingham,  the  knob 
hung  loose,  the  faded  jig-saw  work  was  blistered  and 
broken.  It  was  not  the  house  of  two  women  who  lived 
better  than  their  neighbors  in  a  mean  street.  A  calico 
gown  eyed  him  with  curiosity  from  the  next  house. 
The  sound  of  his  feet  on  the  veranda  disconcerted 
him.  There  were  several  outcomes  possible  to  this 
uninvited  visit.  He  paused.  He  could  not  bring  in 


96  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

his  great  idea  through  that  narrow  portal  and  set  it 
naked  for  her  mother  to  revere :  her  mother  would  not 
understand,  or  understanding  would  not  believe;  so 
the  little  that  he  knew  of  her  persuaded  him.  With- 
out warning  the  door  opened  and  he  felt  himself 
under  the  suspicion  in  two  eyes  of  faded  gray. 

"  Is  Miss  Marr  in  ?  "  he  said.  He  saw  a  woman  who 
never  had  been  beautiful,  but  who  once  had  been 
pretty  and  doll-like.  He  felt  that  she  divined  who 
he  was.  Her  undecided  mouth  and  chin  worked  as 
if  consuming  in  silence  a  weak  tendency  to  yield  up 
the  truth. 

"  Miss  Ethel  Marr,"  Kendry  defined,  more  for  the 
affability  he  hoped  she  might  contract  from  him.  Her 
glance,  from  a  silvered  head  smaller  and  narrower 
than  her  daughter's,  refused  to  return  to  Kendry. 
Involuntarily  she  swung  the  door  a  little  against  him. 
She  turned  for  a  doubtful  look  up  steep  stairs  that 
finished  close  behind  her.  An  answer  seemed  forced 
from  her. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  decided  step  at  the  upper  landing. 
Kendry  saw  two  shoes  and  the  girl's  familiar  skirt,  then 
a  revelation  of  her  waist,  her  shoulders,  her  mouth, 
her  compelling  eyes.  They  rather  startlingly  reminded 
him  that  the  girl  who  dwelt  so  romantically  on  his 
impersonal  fancy  was  of  flesh  and  blood.  Against  the 
low  ceiling  and  beside  the  smaller  woman  who  leaned 
back  with  a  faint  irrelevant  smile,  Ethel  Marr  loomed 


THE   HOUSE   ON    THE   BRINK  97 

not  quite  as  the  docile  spirit  his  imagination  had  come 
to  picture  her.  She  was  under  her  own  roof  and  it 
might  have  been  evident  that  she  was  prepared  for  the 
situation  she  was  taking  in  hand.  Kendry,  in  a  man's 
surrender  to  her  softly  vital  presence,  fell  from  self- 
confidence.  He  laughed  rather  helplessly  to  her  in 
the  brief  moment  while  the  girl's  look  met  and  van- 
quished the  will  of  her  mother. 

"  You've  come  to  acknowledge  your  coat,"  said 
Miss  Marr.  "  That  was  more  than  I  expected.  You 
must  come  in.  This  is  Mr.  Kendry,  mother." 

There  was  a  door  at  either  side  of  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  Mrs.  Marr  smiled  queerly  from  the  threshold 
of  the  one  whose  knob  she  grasped. 

"  I  know  how  irregular  this  seems.  I  shall  ex- 
plain it  to  you,"  he  hastened  engagingly  to  say  to  her. 
The  lady  kept  fading  away  from  him.  Miss  Marr 
opened  the  opposite  door,  breaking  the  silence. 
Automatically  he  completed  his  separation  from  her 
mother.  He  found  his  head  near  the  ceiling  of  a 
square  room  he  could  have  crossed  in  three  strides. 
It  contained  too  much  heavy  furniture  upholstered  in 
vivid  blue  and  yellow  plush.  There  was  a  wax  cross 
in  a  glass  case  above  the  mantel  and  there  was  a  heavy 
bible  on  a  table  of  its  own.  Sea  shells  flanked  the 
meager  fireplace,  and  yellowed  family  photographs  in 
round  walnut  frames  hung  against  the  cold  blue  fig- 
ures of  the  wall  paper.  It  made  her  the  more  won- 
derful when  she  closed  him  in  and  stood,  in  her  straight 


98  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

gaze  at  him,  her  fine  completeness  of  contour,  as  in- 
congruous with  these  surroundings  as  he  was  himself. 

"  Shall  I  hope  to  have  your  mother  hear  what  I've 
come  for?"  said  Kendry.  Her  eyes  widened  in  the 
way  he  had  so  remarked  on  the  mountain  side;  her 
mouth  compressed  and  she  threw  open  the  door  to 
the  entry.  It  disclosed  her  mother,  again  with  her 
hand  upon  the  knob  across  the  way,  her  glance  unwill- 
ingly held  on  Kendry.  Miss  Marr  did  not  turn  to  see 
the  effect  of  her  act.  "  I  have  no  secrets  from  my 
mother,"  she  said  colorlessly.  The  elder  woman's 
cheek  reddened ;  she  coughed  and  hurried  up  the  stairs. 
Miss  Marr  seemed  to  go  on  in  a  plain  statement  of 
fact,  unmixed  with  emotion;  but  it  was  forcing  a 
physiognomy  molded  to  frankness  and  feeling.  "  She 
thinks  that  any  not  unfavorable  impression  I  may  have 
had  of  you  was  based  on  my  inexperience,  my  cre- 
dulity," she  said.  "  She  thinks  you've  come  to  ask  us 
questions  about  Mr.  Paulter." 

The  door  remained  open ;  he  was  not  sure  that  Mrs. 
Marr's  flight  had  continued  beyond  the  head  of  the 
stairs.  Through  the  girl's  mute  exterior  Kendry 
saw  her  keen  hope  that  he  might  prove  what  would 
justify  her  and  confound  her  mother.  It  marked  the 
end  of  her  self-possession.  He  delightedly  took  hold. 

"  Suppose  that  I  never  ask  you  any  question  re- 
motely connected  with  Mr.  Paulter  ?  "  he  said.  Her 
mouth  curved  roundly  at  the  corners ;  but  she  checked 
the  breath  she  had  caught. 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRINK  99 

"  Shall  you  not?  "  she  held  him  to  the  letter.  Yet 
something  that  had  endured  through  the  hours  of 
their  meeting  in  the  chaparral  now  was  already  melting 
before  his  full  responsiveness. 

"  I  shall  not,"  he  said.  "  I'm  a  messenger  to  you 
from  Mary  Eastwood,  the  lady  who  models  in  clay. 
She  wishes  to  know  if  you  will  sit  for  her — for  a  bust, 
in  return  for  a  substantial  acknowledgment.  It's  the 
Eastwood  family.  You'll  sit  comfortably  in  a  pleas- 
ant house  and  talk  to  Miss  Eastwood.  She's  a  woman 
of  much  accomplishment.  From  time  to  time  all  the 
interesting  people  in  town  drop  in  there — which  of 
course  shuts  me  out,"  he  playfully  added.  "  Should 
you  think  of  turning  your  time  into  money,  nothing 
else  would  be  quite  so  cheerful  or  so  remunerative." 

She  followed  him  with  the  pleased  wonder  of  a 
young  child. 

"  I  don't  see  why  she  wishes  to  model  me? "  she 
laughed. 

'  That's  an  embarrassing  question,"  said  Kendry, 
much  at  ease.  "  I'm  not  used  to  telling  a  girl  in  one 
heroic  dose  that  she's  beautiful:  it's  too  important  a 
fact.  I  generally  try  to  suggest  it  to  her  homeopath- 
ically.  So  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  ask  Miss  East- 
wood." He  was  not  the  man  of  forty  he  aimed  to  be 
and  he  could  not  responsibly  gauge  the  quality  of  her 
young  receptive  gaze.  Some  cloud  presently  gathered 
on  her  horizon. 

"  She's  seen  me?  "  she  brought  him  up. 


100  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

11  Not  with  her  own  eyes,  yet/'  he  was  forced  to  say. 
"  But  I've  described  you  to  her.  I've  been  a  good  deal 
with  her  in  the  galleries  in  Europe.  I  understand  her 
tastes." 

"  You  told  her  all  about  our  meeting?  "  she  flushed. 
"  You  told  her  everything  ? "  He  kept  nodding 
cheerfully. 

"  Perhaps  not  all  I  heard,  but  all  I  saw,"  was  all  he 
could  say  for  her  pride. 

"  She  didn't  think  I  was — queer  ?  "  Miss  Marr  pur- 
sued, lifting  her  eyes. 

"How  could  she!"  said  Kendry.  "I  described 
you  to  her." 

"And  you  didn't  think  I  was — queer?"  she  came, 
accusatively.  Her  head  dropped  toward  him,  accent- 
ing the  importance  of  it.  Her  eyes  widened  at  his 
reply: 

"  Just  your  entrance  into  a  room  would  say,  '  No,' 
to  that ;  merely  your  presence  would  prevent  the  ques- 
tion. I  hope  you'll  at  once  answer  favorably  to  a 
letter  that's  coming  from  Miss  Eastwood  ?  "  After 
a  moment  she  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"  It  wouldn't  prevent  it  in  her  mind,"  she  said.  "  I 
should  be  a  mystery  to  her.  I  couldn't  be  anything 
else.  One  couldn't  lay  one's  whole  story  bare  for 
her,"  she  found  it  hard  to  say.  "  One  doesn't  count 
on  its  being  laid  half  bare  by  an  accident.  One — " 
she  searched,  "  one  doesn't  know  what  to  do  about  it." 

He  was  under  arraignment  for  having  confided  so 


THE   HOUSE   ON 


much  about  her  to  Mary  Eastwood.  Yet  he  agree- 
ably felt,  and  not  knowing  why,  that  without  too  much 
reluctance  she  was  yielding  him  the  place  chance  had 
given  him  through  their  episode. 

"All  sorts  of  things  are  solved  by  complete  frank- 
ness," Kendry  alluringly  filled  the  void.  "  You  are 
too  magnificent,  if  you  please,  to  go  on  as  you  are. 
I  want  to  change  all  that,  in  a  way  to  please  you; 
but  I,  myself,  can't  do  it,  in  the  social  nature  of 
things.  So  I  want  you  to  know  Mary.  I'd  have 
said  this  the  moment  I  entered  the  house,  if  I  hadn't 
been  afraid  that  you'd  doubt  the  personal  equation  — 
that  you  wouldn't  believe  that  the  obligation  will  be 
not  in  the  least  yours,  but  hers  and  mine.  I'm  full 
of  my  big  idea.  I  shall  never  know  quite  how  much 
of  it  I  owe  to  myself  and  how  much  I  owe  to  having 
waked  up  to  look  so  comfortably  at  you." 

He  stirred  with  a  happiness  in  saying  this.  She 
had  been  held  fascinated  by  his  kindly  simplicity. 
Her  striving  to  match  him  was  with  some  loss  of 
steadiness. 

"  I  haven't  been  urged  to  believe  you.  Even  if  I 
had  been  —  "  she  stopped  and  looked  at  the  little 
frayed  spot  in  her  skirt,  then  at  the  harsh  colors  that 
seemed  to  drive  the  two  young  people  at  each  other. 
"  I  happened  to  hear  Miss  Eastwood  give  her  name 
in  a  shop  once,  when  she  was  ordering  some  lace," 
she  began  again.  "  She'd  come  here,  some  day. 
She'd  wonder  why  I  haven't  made  my  compromise; 


102  JOHN-  KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

why  I  haven't  given  something  of  myself  to  this  room; 
why  I'm  quite  without  such  people  as  might  visit  me. 
She  wouldn't  understand  that  I  can't  be  pathetic;  I 
couldn't  sit  down  to  the  mockery  of  accepting  my  sit- 
uation in  life.  If  she  found  me  in  a  mood  to  smash 
it  all,  without  counting  the  cost,  I  should  fatigue  her, 
I  should  frighten  her.  We  should  end  in  politeness." 

"Ah,  but  you  have  your  impression  from  Mary's 
exterior ! "  he  glowed.  "  She  is  a  bit  like  a  Gothic 
cathedral ;  but  you'd  penetrate  to  the  high  altar,  behind 
the  railing.  And  you'd  be  quite  as  good  for  her  as 
she'd  be  for  you.  You  must  come,"  he  smiled. 
"  Fate  requires  it." 

He  thought  he  had  convinced  her.  Her  look  fell 
before  his  steadfast  will;  she  tapped  her  fingers.  He 
imagined  a  jewel  on  one  of  them,  of  deep  reflecting 
blue. 

"  Didn't  Mr.  Paulter,"  she  halted  him,  "  didn't  he 
threaten  you  if  you  came  here  ?  "  It  made  him  survey 
her  more  inquiringly. 

"  Had  he  the  least  right  ?  "  he  asked,  the  one  assur- 
ance lacking. 

"  No — no ! "  was  her  rich  vehemence,  her  eyes  di- 
lating. "  I  only  wish  you  to  know  why  I'm  sitting 
here  with  the  key  of  the  street  door ;  why  I  fled  from 
you  yesterday  into  the  morgue." 

"  I  drove  you  into  the  morgue  ?  "  Kendry  gasped. 

"  I  had  come  from  the  police  headquarters,  about 
the  robbery;  I  had  discovered  the  morgue  across  the 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRINK          103 

way.  There  was  the  body  of  a  girl  there,  who  had 
shot  herself.  It  fascinated  me.  I  kept  looking  at  her, 
trying  to  believe  that  things  could  get  so  bad  for  one 
as  that." 

"They  can't,"  Kendry  shuddered.  "You  must 
come  to  Miss  Eastwood's,"  it  made  him  say.  There 
was  a  shudder,  too,  behind  her  thoughts. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  you  say  that  you  will  avoid 
Mr.  Paulter." 

"I  don't  intend  to  seek  him  out,"  said  Kendry. 
She  shook  her  head. 

"  That  isn't  enough.  It's  too  wretched  for  me,  if 
you  please,  to  think  that  it  might  be  the  beginning 
of  a  tragedy.  I'm  too  much  alone.  I  can't  stand 
up  under  any  more  weight.  You  mustn't  let  any 
generous  impulse  bring  you  to  this  neighbor- 
hood  " 

She  was  on  her  feet  at  the  sound  of  a  step  outside. 
There  was  a  hearty  whistle  and  a  drumming  on  the 
street  door.  Kendry  heard  her  mother  hurrying 
down  the  stairs.  The  girl  threw  open  the  door  at  the 
back  of  the  room;  she  paled  with  the  bending  of  her 
will  to  control  him. 

"This  way,"  she  whispered.  His  impulse  was  to 
yield  to  what  would  calm  her ;  but  he  stood  still. 

"  Do*  let  me  go  as  I  came,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
know  how  to  run  away." 

"Won't  you  please,"  she  pleaded.  She  was  not 
aware  of  her  mother,  of  a  look  from  her  of  disap- 


104  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

proval  and  of  anxiety.  They  heard  the  door  knob 
tried,  then  a  tattoo  on  the  panel.  The  girl  came  and 
held  her  hands  out  to  him.  "  You  must  come/'  she 
said. 

He  followed  her  through  the  dining  room.  He  had 
a  glimpse  of  white  plates  and  of  plaid  napkin  rings, 
of  a  sewing  machine  and  a  canary  bird,  of  a  hanging 
shelf  stuffed  with  old  magazines.  She  hastened  to 
throw  open  the  French  window  that  led  into  the  rear 
yard.  They  heard  Paulter  jocularly  summoning 
some  one  to  arise  and  let  him  in.  Its  familiarity 
added  to  Kendry's  annoyance. 

"  I  shall  have  to  meet  him  and  have  it  out  with 
him,"  he  was  forced  to  follow  her  to  say.  They  were 
in  a  barren  inclosure  that  might  have  been  a  green 
garden.  She  shook  her  head. 

"  There  isn't  anything  to  have  out,"  she  kept  along. 
"  There'll  be  nothing  to  bring  us  together  again.  I 
shall  not  go  to  Miss  -Eastwood."  She  pushed  her 
hair  from  her  heated  cheek.  The  opening  of  the  gate 
in  the  boarding  completed  the  vexatious  contrast  for 
Kendry.  She  stood  straight  and  breathless,  invinci- 
ble in  her  helplessness,  for  a  young  man  with  red 
blood  in  his  veins.  The  background  was  to  him  a  blur 
of  weeds,  of  blackened  boards,  of  the  crude  colors 
flapping  from  near-by  clothes  lines.  "  I  haven't 
seemed  grateful,  but  I  am."  She  offered  her  hand. 
It  was  the  passing  of  all  her  doubt.  The  current 
through  their  fingers  came  out  of  her  inner  conscious- 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    BRINK         105 

ness,  indifferent  as  to  time,  place,  circumstance.  It 
was  indifferent  as  to  any  man's  great  idea.  Over  her 
shoulder  he  saw  her  mother  at  the  window,  palely  fixed 
on  them.  He  could  have  drawn  Ethel  Marr  through 
that  gate;  he  could  have  closed  out  the  face  and  the 
tattooing  on  the  street  door  for  her  forever. 

"  You  must  come ! "  he  gripped  her  hand,  all 
masculine.  "  I  want  you  to  come." 

His  thrill  marveled  within  him  even  when  he 
reached  the  plane.  It  was  because  now  he  should  be 
able  to  make  Mary  feel  it  as  he  felt  it,  he  told  himself. 
It  was  because  in  that  stirring  of  her  generosity  the 
current  he  counted  on  to  bring  her  to  himself  would 
be  set  flowing.  Then  should  the  idea  have  justified 
itself,  to  his  heart  and  to  his  world. 

His  pleasant  glow  of  recollection  of  the  moment 
at  the  gate  kept  returning,  as  if  there  were  even  more 
beauty  in  it  than  he  had  yet  fathomed. 

But  he  was  not  a  girl,  locked  in  a  low  ceiled  room 
with  a  window  through  whose  curtains  showed  the 
canting  telegraph  poles  down  below  an  ugly  precipice 
amid  the  rusty  jetsam  of  a  freight  railway.  She  lay 
for  hours,  again  and  again  going  over  that  scene  where 
so  luminously,  so  magically  he  had  created  an  atmos- 
phere as  of  the  great  romantic  alluring  world. 


CHAPTER    VIII 
SOME:  INDICATIONS 

HE  announced  to  Mary  that  if  Ethel  Marr  came  to  her 
Miss  Marr  should  be  able  to  say  that  she  did  not  see 
him  at  the  Eastwoods.  He  received  from  Mary  the 
message :  "  She's  come,"  and  for  three  weeks  he  was 
treated  to  no  further  information.  After  enough 
time  should  elapse  to  establish  for  Mrs.  Marr  the 
detached  benevolence  of  his  motives  he  counted  on  the 
pleasure  of  an  occasional  glimpse  of  his  young  woman ; 
and  meanwhile  he  had  expected  Mary,  in  his  weekly 
visit,  to  be  interesting  with  some  report  of  progress. 
His  first  opportunity  to  hear  Mary  speak  had  been 
clouded  by  the  presence  of  others,  save  for  a  moment. 
It  was  a  moment  Mary  created  and  could  have  created 
sooner,  he  thought,  and  have  held  longer.  She  had 
made  no  use  of  it,  as  he  had  taken  for  granted  she 
spontaneously  would,  to  come  at  once  to  the  affairs 
of  her  model.  When  on  his  second  visit  they  were 
alone  and  Mary  had  responded :  "  She  comes  regu- 
larly/' and  had  passed  to  subjects  more  of  her  own 
intimate  concern,  Kendry  had  waited  patiently  for 
her  to  return  to  Ethel  Marr.  That  she  did  not  set 
him  pondering.  It  was  his  opportunity  to  show  mature 

106 


SOME    INDICATIONS  107 

restraint  of  his  wonder  why  Mary  took  so  to  the 
letter  his  disclaimer  of  the  personal  with  Miss  Marr. 
On  his  third  visit  he  lived  up  to  this  opportunity,  just 
as  he  maintained  his  resolve  not  to  broach  the  personal 
between  himself  and  Mary.  His  success  gratified 
but  did  not  enliven  him.  It  was  not  the  Mary  with 
whom  he  discussed  the  crudities  of  a  young  democ- 
racy that  kept  him  going;  it  was  the  Mary  whom  he 
imagined  blossoming  some  day  into  new  being  under 
the  all-developing  influence  of  a  passion  for  himself. 
Around  her  he  had  assumed  the  starting  point  for 
what  the  idea  was  to  accomplish  for  Miss  Marr.  It 
was  to  keep  her  buoyed  till  some  large  event — which 
he  quite  blankly  left  the  future  to  compose — should 
establish  her  happiness. 

It  made  an  interval  his  other  preoccupations  could 
not  deprive  of  dullness  and  vacancy.  The  sight  one 
evening  of  the  little  man  with  the  great  ears,  whom 
he  suspected  of  knowing  Paulter,  caused  Kendry  to 
follow  him  into  that  frescoed  restaurant.  Close  self- 
examination  would  have  shown  that  Kendry  hoped 
to  hear  something  about  Paulter  and  from  this  some- 
thing that  would  touch  on  Miss  Marr.  The  little  man 
sat  down  at  the  table  where  again  the  Pole  and  the 
mariner  were  dining.  As  Kendry  joined  them  he  saw 
at  the  back  of  the  room  Paulter,  at  a  table  with  some 
women.  He  sat  with  his  back  to  Paulter  and  found 
the  Pole  and  the  sailor  in  disconsolate  moods.  Ken- 
dry  brightened  their  meal  with  wine  and  with  good 


108  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

tobacco.  It  brought  forth  some  of  their  history. 
The  little  man's  name  was  Collins;  he  kept  recurring 
to  the  counterfeit  dollars,  insinuating  that  a  gentleman 
of  Kendry's  force  and  power  was  ready  to  look  into 
that  matter  of  public  concern  and  would  accept  the 
assistance  of  the  two  across  the  table.  They  said 
that  their  time  was  too  taken  by  their  private  strug- 
gles. The  Pole  had  five  children,  dwelling  in  a  cellar. 
One  of  them  or  another  was  always  ill.  Once  a  week 
he  sat  up  for  the  night,  that  his  wife  might  sleep  con- 
secutive hours.  Once  a  week  he  extravagantly  dined 
for  fifty  cents  at  this  restaurant,  and  saw  the  world. 
He  was  born  to  think,  not  to  labor  with  his  hands,  he 
said,  shrugging  at  his  pricked  fingers.  His  one  great 
act,  in  addition  to  his  writings,  for  which  the  world 
was  not  yet  ripe,  would  be  to  kill  some  representative 
plutocrat.  It  was  only  thus  that  the  rich  could  be 
made  to  fear  and  to  scatter  their  wealth.  The  sailor 
gruffly  dubbed  him  a  damned  anarchist. 

The  sailor  was  altered  and  worn.  He  jus"t  had 
been  going  to  forsake  the  sea.  He  had  been  going  to 
have  a  home — and  something  more,  which  Kendry 
guessed  was  not  masculine.  He  had  bought  into  a 
schooner  and  the  schooner  was  returning  from  Tahiti 
with  another  three  thousand  dollars  added  to  his  in- 
terest in  her.  She  would  be  returning  from  Tahiti, 
till  hell  froze  over.  His  three  partners  had  juggled 
the  insurance,  there  was  nothing  left  for  him.  A 
sailor  was  like  a  seal,  he  said :  he  couldn't  live  always 


SOME    INDICATIONS  109 

in  the  water;  and,  when  he  came  ashore  to  make  his 
nest,  they  had  him  skinned  before  he  was  cold.  It 
was  "  up  to  the  rich — always  up  to  the  rich,"  the  Pole 
said,  echoing  his  hollow  laugh.  Collins  kept  covertly 
ridiculing  them  in  a  way  that  sought  ingratiation  with 
Kendry. 

The  sailor  pointed  his  red  hand  past  Kendry  to  one 
whose  face  he  said  it  would  soothe  his  soul  to  change 
to  smash.  Did  they  know  that  man  Paulter  ?  He  had 
taken  Paulter's  gun  from  him  one  night  at  Port 
Costa.  Paulter  was  a  youth  then  and  had  received 
back  his  revolver,  minus  the  lead,  and  had  been  kicked 
landwards.  Paulter  was  a  crony  of  the  three  who 
had  just  flim-flammed  him. 

The  Pole  knew  him.  It  was  a  story  about  a  girl 
from  Bialystok,  arriving  without  friends  and  with 
little  knowledge  of  the  language.  Not  the  fat-faced 
pudding,  with  two  currants  for  eyes,  who  was  serving 
her  proper  destiny  beside  him  to-night;  no,  a  little 
girl  with  a  wonderful  lighting-up  of  the  face  and 
made  of  credulity — in  the  wisdom  of  our  Father  in 
Heaven — and  with  no  friends.  Paulter  also  did  busi- 
ness with  that  diminutive  Ting  Lee,  with  the  wire 
muscles  pulling  his  thin  skin  and  with  the  ugly  cica- 
trix  under  his  chin — Kendry  remembered  the  China- 
man he  had  met  for  a  few  moments  at  Chan  Kow's. 
Ting  Lee  was  the  richest  man  in  Chinatown,  where- 
fore he  could  have  no  soul — not  even  a  Chinese 
soul. 


110  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

The  sailor  demurred.  The  richest  Chinaman  was 
Chan  Kow,  who  lived  in  a  house  without  an  entrance 
from  any  street.  The  sailor  knew  a  few  things.  He  had 
talked  with  an  ex-detective,  who  had  started  honestly 
to  clean  out  Chinatown  and  was  now  in  Shang- 
hai— a  life  of  racing-ponies  and  sing-song  girls — • 
money  like  water.  Chan  Kow,  he  heard,  had  a  harem 
that  would  chorus  a  grand  opera — white  women  pre- 
ferred. God  made  the  world!  He  kicked  back  his 
chair  in  disgust  for  all  existence.  The  Pole  translated 
him;  it  was  "  up  to  the  rich,  always  up  to  the  rich!  " 
Together  the  incongruous  pair  left  the  restaurant,  reg- 
istering queerly  on  Kendry's  mind.  Collins  proposed 
that  Kendry  join  him,  for  the  good  of  civilization,  if 
Kendry  believed  Paulter  was  connected  with  the  coun- 
terfeiters in  Chinatown,  and  clean  out  that  gang.  He 
had  made  a  guess,  he  said,  at  what  Kendry  had  been 
doing  in  that  quarter.  The  proposal  was  one  Kendry 
could  not  answer  without  throwing  more  intimate  a 
light  upon  himself.  He  ignored  it,  contemplating  the 
shifty  eyes  under  Collins'  shaggy  brows.  He  likened 
Collins,  inwardly,  to  some  bad  cross  with  a  persistent 
strain  of  Skye  terrier.  At  this  moment  Kendry's 
shoulder  was  rudely  countered  from  the  rear  and  the 
wine  in  his  raised  glass  sent  wetting  his  fingers. 
Paulter  passed.  Kendry  stared  and  was  himself 
stared  at  tensely  with  expectation  by  Collins  and  by 
those  at  the  adjoining  tables. 

The  powdered  woman  who  had  preceded  Paulter 


SOME    INDICATIONS  111 


waited  for  him  at  the  cashier's  desk.  Her  eyes  fixed 
with  patent  approval  upon  Kendry,  unaware  of  what 
had  happened.  Paulter  turned  as  if  to  afford  Kendry 
full  opportunity,  his  confident  smile  drifting  for  a 
moment  to  Collins.  There  was  a  hush  at  the  near 
tables ;  when  Paulter  leisurely  let  his  companion  out  on 
to  the  street  the  hush  rose  to  a  whisper  of  comment. 

Kendry  continued  looking  at  space  until  at  length 
people  ceased  to  look  at  him.  He  did  not  listen  to  one 
or  two  remarks  of  examinative  Collins,  intended  to  be 
sympathetic.  Soon  Collins  rose. 

"  I  admired  your  nerve,  Mr.  Kendry.  He's  a  dan- 
gerous man." 

"  So  am  I.  Go  to  the  devil !  "  said  Kendry.  It 
fairly  represented  his  state  of  mind.  He  did  not  in- 
tend to  be  drawn  into  a  public  brawl  with  the  time 
and  circumstance  neatly  prearranged  by  the  enemy. 
But  how  great  an  affront  was  a  man  to  let  pass,  no 
matter  what  his  reasoning?  That  question  suffi- 
ciently depressed  him.  He  recognized  in  his  calcu- 
lating restraint  an  inherited  trait  that  had  helped  to 
make  his  father  a  successful  man.  But  had  this  been 
present  in  his  father  at  twenty- four?  The  more 
direct,  impulsive  surrender  to  anger  seemed  at  that 
moment  a  sure  sign  of  the  honest,  the  all-wholesome 
human.  Kendry  had  compounded  his  conflicting  im- 
pulses and  the  logical  faculty  had  prevailed.  But  that 
laid  it  upon  him  to  prove,  if  but  for  his  self-respect,  a 
greater,  finer  purpose  in  life  than  the  world  would  be 


112  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

quick  to  believe.  He  would  prove  it.  The  encounter 
with  Paulter  went  down  into  the  bottle  and  remained 
there,  corked  and  exerting  a  pressure  that  hurt  him. 
The  hurt  was  his  sacrifice  to  the  cause  of  the  idea  and 
to  the  peace  of  a  gentle  girl.  At  Mary's  she  must 
have  found  comfort  and  thus  have  added  to  Paulter's 
jealous  fears.  After  to-night  Paulter  would  proceed 
in  confidence  that  a  closer  approach,  a  word,  would 
cause  John  Kendry 's  son  to  quail.  Kendry  went 
home.  It  was  unnecessary  for  him  ever  to  dine  there 
again,  even  if  the  place  had  suited  his  taste. 

He  thought  he  conquered  the  pressure  in  the  bottle, 
by  reflection,  by  philosophy.  But  if  he  drove  in  the 
cork  the  tighter,  the  effort  was  taken  up  somewhere  in 
his  subjective  consciousness.  It  was  not  pleasant  to 
be  embroiled  with  a  man  of  Paulter's  type.  It  added 
to  the  flatness,  the  next  day,  of  his  knowing  nothing 
through  Mary. 

He  sat  in  his  office  with  his  agent  when  the  door 
opened  to  a  heavy,  moon-faced  Chinaman  of  striking 
height,  clad  in  a  coarse  blue  tunic  and  funnels.  The 
Chinese  kept  on  his  slouch  hat  and  sat  at  a  distance, 
blankly  holding  a  bundle  tied  in  a  cloth,  his  heels  on 
the  rung  of  a  chair.  It  amused  Kendry  not  to  pay 
him  attention  till  the  agent  had  gone. 

"  Quf  est  ce  qu'  il  te  faut,  mon  Dieu! "  said  Chan 
Kow.  "  They  say  this  Paulter  vows  to  kill  you.  It 
is  enough  to  steal  that  lovely  brass  hair  from  him. 
Why  not  leave  alone  his  business  affairs  ? "  His 


SOME    INDICATIONS  113 

French,  rippling  from  those  thick  lips,  was  endlessly 
a  marvel. 

"  If  you  know  him,  tell  him  I'm  not  touching  his 
business  affairs,"  said  Kendry.  "  And  tell  him  I'm  not 
in  love  with  Miss  Marr."  Chan  Kow  put  down  his 
bundle. 

"  Then  what?"  he  searched. 

"  I'm  trying  to  improve  the  conditions  of  her  life, 
to  add  to  her  opportunities,  to " 

"Mais,  oui,  oui! — why?  "  said  Chan  Kow. 

"  For  the  pleasure  it  will  give  me  to  see  such  a 
beautiful  girl  living  a  beautiful  life,"  said  Kendry. 
Chan  Kow  stared  at  him  over  his  broad  nose. 

"  No  sabbee,"  he  said  at  length.  "  What  religion? 
What  good  for  you?  At  your  time  of  life  such 
thoughts  should  go  for  a  wife." 

"  The  lady  I  want  to  marry  doesn't  need  them," 
said  Kendry.  It  seemed  to  him  a  confidence  as  safe 
as  if  he  had  told  it  to  the  sea.  "  She  has  everything." 

"  Except  a  husband,"  said  Chan  Kow.  "  Marry 
her  and  go  to  Paris — ah,  Paris ! — to-morrow !  " 

"  But  you  see,"  Kendry  laughed,  "  the  lady,  at  pres- 
ent, doesn't  wish  to  marry — any  one."  Chan  Kow 
contemplated  him. 

"  If  a  girl  does  not  yearn  for  a  lover,  a  husband,  a 
child,  she  is  too  old  or  too  young,  or  too  thin  in  the 
blood,"  he  said.  "  Do  not  consider  yourself  too  suf- 
ficient where  nature  fails.  What  color  ?  What  eyes  ? 
I  think  the  brass  hair  is  strong,  in  her  willow  waist 


114  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

and  in  the  pumping  of  her  heart.  How  old,  this 
other?" 

Kendry  reflected  that  there  had  been  no  need  for 
opening  his  confidence.  "  She's  thirty-one/'  he  had  to 
continue. 

Chan  Kow  might  have  been  showing  commendable 
indifference  to  a  glass  of  water  accidentally  thrown 
in  his  face.  Presently  he  smiled  and  opened  his 
hands. 

"  It  is  not  the  business  of  a  cochon  de  Chinois! "  he 
said.  "  Let  us  get  on  to  the  question  of  your  life.  A 
lover  dead  is  of  little  worth  even  to  a  woman  of  thirty- 
one.  You  must  shoot  this  Paulter  or  put  him  in  jail. 
Which?" 

"  Jail !  "  said  Kendry.  "  I  don't  like  to  judge  when 
a  man  ought  to  die,  especially  at  the  moment  he's 
judging  when  I  ought  to  die.  I  might  bias  him.  Is 
Paulter  the  chief  counterfeiter,  then?"  Chan  Kow 
mused,  looking  at  him. 

"  Come  to  the  -theater — the  Chinese  theater,  to- 
night," he  said.  "  Come  in  a  carriage.  If  possible, 
bring  ladies.  In  the  front  row  observe  a  fat  rhinoce- 
ros-faced Chinaman,  something  like  Chan  Kow." 

"  Mais,  oui,  oui,  why  ?  "  said  Kendry.  He  won- 
dered why  Chan  Kow  had  come  so  unnoticeably 
dressed;  he  remembered  seeing  him  abroad  in  silks 
and  in  a  cap  with  a  button. 

"  Not  to  understand  Chinatown,  mon  His''  the  old 
man  smiled ;  "  you  are  an  Occidental.  But  to  see  such 


SOME    INDICATIONS  115 

things  as  concern  you.  You  have  mentioned  Paulter 
to  the  authorities  ?  "  He  watched  Kendry's  eye. 

"  I  haven't  enough  cause  to,"  said  Kendry.  "  Have 
you?" 

Chan  Kow  looked  out  over  the  roofs.  "  The  lovely 
willow  waist — how  old?"  he  pondered.  "About 
twenty,  I  think."  He  thoughtfully  produced  from  his 
bundle  a  piece  of  jade  that  grew  on  Kendry's  admira- 
tion. It  was  easily  two  pounds  in  weight  and  of  re- 
markable depth  of  color.  It  was  carved  with  unusual 
vigor  for  a  Chinese  workman,  in  the  image  of  a  snarl- 
ing dragon.  "  Of  more  value  than  you  must  quote 
connected  with  my  name,"  Chan  Kow  smiled.  "But 
of  no  value  compared  to  your  father's  friendly  deeds 
for  me.  I  thought  of  it  surrendering  to  those  blue 
eyes  of  twenty — of  it  turning  to  turquoise  for  them. 
Will  it  go  well  as  your  gift  to  the  demoiselle  of  thirty- 
one — a  trifle  discovered  in  Chinatown  ?  " 

"  If  you  pictured  it  in  Miss  Marr's  possession,  I 
shouldn't  think  of  its  going  elsewhere,"  said  Kendry. 

"  You  are  a  stranger ;  you  do  not  wish  to  marry 
her,"  Chan  Kow  corrected.  "  Even  according  to  the 
far  western  code,  it  would  be  questionable.  Shall  I 
send  it  to  the  thirty-one,  with  your  card  ?  " 

"  I  do  think  it  would  please  her ;  she's  a  woman  of 
the  finest  appreciations."  To  this  Chan  Kow  grunted. 
Kendry  wrote  the  Eastwood  address  on  the  back  of 
his  card,  his  mind  trying  to  make  something  of  the 
mystery  in  which  his  Chinese  friend  forever  moved. 


116  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

It  baffled  him;  the  only  thing  projecting  through  the 
veil  was  the  old  man's  friendship  for  the  son  of  his 
benefactor.  On  the  filling  of  the  doorway  by  Henry 
Eastwood,  Chan  Kow's  face  faded  from  expression. 

"You  no  wanchee?"  he  squeaked,  pointing  to  his 
bundle. 

"  No  wanchee,"  Kendry  said,  acting  the  part  thus 
suggested  to  him.  Chan  Kow  slouched  into  the  cor- 
ridor without  looking  behind  him.  If  he  knew  so 
much  about  Paulter,  Kendry  thought,  it  was  strange 
if  he  did  not  know  more. 

Eastwood  spoke  from  an  unaccustomed  languor. 
"  When  do  we  talk  over  that  office  building,  for  you 
and  Mab  ?  "  he  began. 

"I'm  only  waiting  for  Mary  to  broach  it,"  said 
Kendry. 

"  Is  that  your  notion  of  getting  on  with  women  ?  " 
Eastwood  shook  his  head. 

"  When  they  know  what  they  want,"  Kendry  nod- 
ded. 

"  My  boy,  they  never  know  what  they  want,"  East- 
wood livened.  "  They  expect  you  to  tell  'em  that. 
That's  why  I'm  here.  Never  mind  business.  It  is 
Miss  Marr,"  he  let  out,  with  a  preparatory  glance. 
"  You  ought  to  come  up  to  the  house."  He  shook 
his  head  again.  Kendry  laughed. 

"  Your  dog  won't  bark  at  me  now,"  he  said. 

"  Once  a  week  won't  do,  my  boy ! "  Eastwood 
burst,  bringing  his  hand  down  on  the  desk.  "  Now 


SOME   INDICATIONS  117 

don't  think  I'm  fussing  about  Mab,"  he  smiled  heart- 
ily, "  'cause  I'm  not.  But  let  me  hand  you  out  some- 
thing as  a  brother  might;  not  advice,  but  example. 
While  you  are  humming  and  hawing  with  Mab  in  your 
exalted  Harvard  way,  I'm  going  to  marry  Miss  Marr." 

A  thrill  tore  through  Kendry,  of  more  elements 
than  he  could  define. 

"Has  she?"  he  gasped.  Eastwood  threw  up  his 
hands. 

"  Give  the  young  lady  a  chance !  "  he  cried.  "  I've 
just  discovered  it  myself.  I've  been  off  my  feed  for 
a  week — couldn't  sleep,  loose  in  the  waistband,  couldn't 
eat — I  haven't  done  a  stroke  of  business  for  seven 
days,"  he  pronounced,  in  awe  of  his  condition.  "  Just 
now  I  came  around  a  corner  and  there  was  Miss  Marr. 
It  nearly  knocked  me — all  in  the  solar  plexus — pin- 
wheels  in  the  diaphragm.  I  went  off  and  had  a  quiet 
drink  and  diagnosed  my  case.  I've  always  been 
afraid,"  he  mused,  "  that  I  should  be  waylaid  by  some 
conventional,  tailor-made,  pocket-handkerchief  young 
party  from  Mab's  choice  bunch — when  I  wasn't  look- 
ing. But,  it  was  just  the  happy  little  contrast  that  set 
me  off;  and  now,  that's  where  you  come  in.  I  may 
be  wrong ;  but  I  believe  that  Mab  has  been  quietly  sand- 
papering that  girl  from  the  moment  she  entered  the 
house.  Not  when  I'm  around;  Mab's  as  civil  as  a 
door-knob  to  her  then :  '  Ring  and  I'll  see  if  anybody's 
in!'  Now  if  Mab  has  taken  that  tack — why?  Just 
rap  your  nut  and  think  why ! "  he  wisely  grimaced. 


118  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

"  But  I  can't/'  said  Kendry.  "  Any  one  so  mild 
and  sweet  and  charming " 

"  Who?     Mab?  "  said  her  brother. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Kendry ;  "  but  I  was  thinking  at 
the  moment  of  Miss  Marr." 

"  Well,  stop  thinking  of  Miss  Marr,  unless  you  want 
to  chuck  Mab  altogether — which  you've  a  perfect 
right  to  do.  If  you've  been  trying  to  make  Mab 
look  up,  it's  time  to  come  and  notice  results.  You've 
not  said  a  word  to  her  about  Miss  Marr  for  two 
weeks — I  got  that  out  of  Mab.  She  also  implies  that 
you  are  losing  your  fizz.  Of  course  she  thinks  you  see 
Miss  Marr  at  her  own  house;  and  I've  let  her  think  so, 
though  I  know  better.  Now  mother  invites  you  to 
dine  with  us  to-night ;  and  if  you  have  an  engagement, 
smash  it!  For  either  one  or  the  other  of  those  girls 
is  going  to  blow  up  to-night — mark  me.  Toddle  up 
early,  with  that  nice  little  deep-water  ripple  of  yours 
that  sets  'em  thinking.  Have  a  go  with  Mab  before 
Miss  Marr  arrives.  That  Telegraph  Hill  will  be  an 
awful  lot  of  leg  work  for  me,  if  Miss  Marr  chucks  us." 

"  We'll  go  to  the  Chinese  theater,  afterward,"  said 
Kendry. 

"  It's  your  say."  Eastwood  snatched  his  hat. 
"  The  show  at  our  house  can't  ring  up  without  you. 
But  I  say,"  he  stopped  at  the  door,  "  you  ought  to  go 
up  and  watch  the  peacocks  at  the  Park,  about  this 
time  of  year.  Paul " 


CHAPTER    IX 

A   GENERAL   ENGAGEMENT 

KENDRY  was  stimulated,  as  he  was  announced  at  the 
threshold  of  the  studio,  at  seeing  prominently  on  one 
of  the  pedestals  the  cast  of  Donatello's  head  of  a  boy 
of  about  three  years  old,  which  they  admired  together 
abroad.  He  had  given  it  to  her  on  leaving  for  Amer- 
ica and  now  saw  it  again  for  the  first  time.  The 
studio  was  the  familiar  large  room  at  the  rear,  little 
transformed  for  the  speckless  arrangement  of  Mary's 
tools  and  clay.  A  dozen  other  pedestals  held  casts 
by  her  own  hand,  which,  if  they  lacked  character- 
istics of  their  own  did  not  lack  characteristics  of  Mary. 
She  came  forward  with  her  finger-tips  for  him  and  her 
smile  in  which  amusement  at  him  always  seemed  to 
lurk. 

"  You're  to  sit  and  look  at  this  portrait,"  she 
showed  him  a  bas-relief.  "  And  there's  a  reason  why 
you  should  find  it  interesting.  I'm  going  to  make  a 
lightning  head  of  you,  meanwhile."  She  went  silently 
to  work,  at  once.  He  stared  at  the  bas-relief  and  any 
excitement  he  had  derived  from  the  visit  of  her  brother 
cooled  away.  Instead  he  felt  a  little  burning  spot  of 
rebellion;  he  felt  a  degree  ridiculous,  posing  thus.  It 

119 


120  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

the  more  decided  him  not  to  be  the  first  to  cross  the 
line  of  the  personal.  That  was  to  reward  him  and 
strengthen  a  tactical  sense  in  him  with  regard  to  Mary. 
For  the  present  he  brought  his  mind  to  the  bas-relief 
and  became  interested  in  it. 

"  This  is  a  good  departure,"  he  said.  "  It  has  a 
new  quality — one  I  haven't  detected  in  your  work 
before." 

"  And  the  likeness  ?  "  Mary  said,  without  looking 
at  him. 

"Is  it  myself?"  he  asked,  with  some  hesitancy. 
Mary  laughed. 

"  She  wouldn't  like  that.  She's  been  scratching  at 
it  for  weeks." 

"Miss  Marr?"  said  Kendry.  "But— this  is  im- 
portant. This  is  delightful.  It's  a  career  for  her." 
He  stood  up. 

"  That's  better,"  said  Mary,  waiting  for  him  to  re- 
gain his  pose,  "  when  one  considers  that  she  may  be 
here  and  hear  you,  at  any  moment." 

"  But  I'm  not  famliar  with  my  profile,"  said  Ken- 
dry.  "  I  never  see  it  except  in  the  tailor's  glass,  and 
then  I'm  hating  the  tailor.  I  fancy  the  likeness  is 
good." 

"  And  all  from  memory,"  said  Mary.  She  held  up 
her  stick  estimating  the  length  of  his  nose.  "  What 
an  impression  you  must  have  made  on  her,  in  two 
interviews."  She  indicated  the  bas-relief.  "  It  was 
my  way  of  preventing  her  from  talking  me  to  death 


A    GENERAL    ENGAGEMENT  121 

about  you.  Mother  says  you  really  ought  not,  you 
know."  She  stopped  and  looked  at  him.  Kendry 
pricked  up  his  ears.  * 

"  But  I  never  see  Miss  Marr,"  he  demurred.  "  If 
she  thinks  I'm  a  matter  of  interest  to  you,  it's  because 
I've  made  her  think  you  are  one  to  me.  Come." 

"  O,  you  are  a  matter  of  interest  to  me."  She  let 
her  irony  weigh  lightly  in  her  tone,  while  her  own 
profile  came  under  examination.  "  She'll  soon  be 
here,"  said  Mary  comfortingly.  "  She'll  take  her  hat 
off  outside  and  bring  it  into  the  room  in  her  hand, 
because  her  hair  is  real  and  her  hat  is  an  imitation." 
At  which  she  colored  as  if  the  speech  echoed  unpleas- 
antly to  her. 

"Well,  dear  Mary,"  Kendry  nodded  to  the  bas- 
relief,  "  her  hair  always  will  be  real,  but  her  hat  won't 
always  be  imitation." 

"Is  that  an  announcement?"  said  Mary,  in  the 
voice  of  detachment.  "  If  it  is,"  she  turned  to  him, 
"  I  don't  know  what  Henry  will  say.  Mother's  been 
trying  to  nurse  him  through  with  this;  but  I  haven't 
yet  dared  to  tell  him  that  Miss  Marr  has  decided  to 
give  up  being  a  model.  She's  going  to  work  in  a 
paper-box  factory,  to-morrow." 

Kendry's  surprise  and  chagrin  did  not  come  to  his 
tongue.  He  looked  at  the  bas-relief;  he  thought  of 
Eastwood's  surmises.  He  wondered  why  she  did  not 
show  the  bust  she  had  been  making  of  Miss  Marr ;  he 
wondered  if  the  green  dragon  had  not  yet  arrived. 


122  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

Mary  was  growing  ever  more  mysterious.  Was  she 
adding  to  the  wall  between  them  that  he  might  the 
more  determinedly  knock  it  down?  Perhaps  she  was 
thinking  of  him  as  she  worked  on.  The  room  was 
quiet,  the  light  was  growing  subdued,  save  at  the  win- 
dow beyond  her.  Her  movements,  her  thin  erect- 
ness,  her  trim  costume  untouched  by  a  sign  of  her 
occupation — they  made,  not  a  finished  picture,  but  a 
beginning  whereon  her  romantic  awakening  would 
fill  out  every  lacking  line.  He  imagined  her  turning 
to  him  with  some  whole-hearted  admission  by  which, 
for  once,  she  stood  at  the  mercy  of  his  kindness.  It 
gave  a  softer  look  to  her  alert  eyes ;  it  took  out  certain 
shallows  at  her  temples  and  beneath  the  corners  of  her 
mouth.  He  imagined  her  saying :  "  I  have  always  be- 
lieved in  your  idea ;  I  believe  in  it  now ;  I  believe  in 
you !  "  He  turned  to  find  himself  absorbed  in  the 
quiet  gaze  of  Ethel  Marr  from  where  she  had  come 
lightly  on  to  the  rug  at  the  threshold.  He  jumped 
up,  bearing  the  precious  bas-relief. 

"  This  is  a  promise,"  he  said.  "  You  mustn't  go 
back  on  it !  I  beg  of  you." 

She  was  at  loss ;  she  flushed  and  it  slurred  her  greet- 
ing to  her  hostess.  "  I  mean  that  it  points  the  way 
to  your  career,"  he  said,  as  she  faced  him,  with  her  hat 
in  her  hand.  With  some  confusion  she  dropped  the 
hat  behind  a  chair-back.  He  remembered  seeing  it 
disappear  around  a  street  corner,  on  its  way  to  the 
morgue. 


A    GENERAL    ENGAGEMENT  123 

"  You  mean  I  ought  to  model  ?  "  she  said. 

"  It  will  open  the  world  to  you,"  said  Kendry. 
"  You'll  have  an  atelier;  you'll  have  a  salon;  you'll 
become  famous." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  That  is  only  a  tour  de 
force,"  she  said,  glancing  at  her  work.  "  I  couldn't 
do  anything  else ;  I  couldn't  do  even  that  again.  I 
watched  you  for  a  long  time  wondering  if  you  were 
dead.  Your  face  was  the  color  of  clay.  It  wasn't 
very  wonderful  that  it  should  cut  into  my  memory." 
She  glanced  at  Mary  Eastwood.  "  I  was  very  fright- 
ened." 

Their  intentness  upon  her  made  her  go  over  to  the 
Donatello  child.  Her  face  illumined  at  this,  her  first 
sight  of  that  work.  Her  hand  rose  involuntarily 
toward  the  soft  round  cheek.  It  fell  on  Kendry's  card, 
preserved  with  its  Paris  date.  "  Oh !  "  she  nodded, 
looking  at  him.  "  You  hadn't  shown  me  this  before," 
she  said  to  Mary. 

"  Jack's  monument  to  our  days  in  Italy,"  Mary  said, 
with  sweetness  new  to  his  ears.  Her  mother  came 
and  greeted  the  girl  with  a  warmth  that  gladdened 
him. 

1  They  are  persuading  you  to  keep  on  ?  "  she  said, 
pressing  the  girl's  hands.  Miss  Marr's  eyes  widened 
for  the  older  woman. 

"  Your  daughter  says  it's  the  greatest  thing  in  her 
life,"  she  answered.  "  It  wouldn't  be  so  for  me.  It 
wouldn't — "  she  hesitated. 


124  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

"  It  wouldn't  be  enough  ?  "  said  the  woman  who  had 
been  beautiful  to  the  girl  who  was.  "  You  couldn't 
lend  yourself  to  the  illusion  for  a  while,  as  a  pleasant 
avenue  into  the  broad  world  ? "  The  girl's  hands 
pressed  hers  fondly. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  could  have,"  she  confidently 
smiled.  Their  quiet  was  interrupted  by  the  ponder- 
ous entrance  of  Henry  Eastwood.  Such  social  suc- 
cess as  he  enjoyed  proceeded  from  the  manner  by  which 
now  he  self-reliantly  commended  himself  to  Miss 
Marr.  He  rapped  loudly  upon  the  lintel  above  his 
head,  and  to  their  startled  attention  bowed  from  the 
waist,  his  hand  upon  his  heart. 

"On  to  the  banquet  hall!"  he  declaimed.  "I've 
mixed  a  tidy  little  tide  for  every  lady."  There  was 
anonunced  a  youth  who  stood  at  the  threshold  in  diffi- 
dence rarely  beheld  there.  Eastwood  turned  it  into 
crimson  blushes.  "  Little  hungry  Tommy  Thorn- 
wick  !  "  Eastwood  roared,  leading  him  forward  to  Miss 
Marr.  "  This  is  the  handsomest  lady  sculptureen  in 
captivity !  "  he  waved  to  her.  "  And  this  is  little  empty- 
tummy-Tommy  !  "  The  youth  knocked  over  a  chair  in 
his  retirement  into  an  obscurity  from  which  subse- 
quently he  was  a  face  raptly  drinking  in  Miss  Marr. 

At  the  table  Kendry  wondered  if  she  had  ever 
tasted,  before  dinner,  a  mixture  of  such  strength  as 
he  detected  in  his  glass. 

"  What  have  you  put  in  this  ?  "  Mary  asked,  voicing 
his  thought. 


A    GENERAL    ENGAGEMENT  125 

"  Sure,  now,"  Eastwood  dinned  at  Miss  Marr,  in 
something  of  a  brogue,  "  'twill  do  her  no  harm.  'Tis 
a  tender  little  drink — '  for  a  tender  little  maid,  for  a 
slender  little  maid ! '  "  he  chanted  at  her  from  a  heavy 
chest.  She  contemplated  him  without  a  sense  of  his 
humor,  sipping  defensively  at  her  glass.  He  seized 
a  fork  and  hammered  on  a  crystal  bowl.  "  On  with 
the  feast,  let  food  be  unconfined ! "  His  sister  breathed 
a  sigh  for  him. 

"  You  melancholy  drawing-room  comedian,"  she 
said. 

Kendry  heard  him  continue  to  his  silent  audience. 
Mary  took  occasion  to  acknowledge  the  jade  dragon. 
It  was  passed  along  the  table  and  reached  Miss  Marr. 
She  examined  the  attached  card  and  stole  a  glance  at 
the  giver  and  at  Mary. 

"  Curious,"  Mary  caught  her.  "  It  makes  your  eyes 
green." 

"  I  shouldn't  wish  to  make  your  dragon  blue,"  the 
girl  smiled  back.  Eastwood  had  snatched  up  Kendry's 
card  and  was  shaking  with  laughter. 

"  Pass  the  buck  to  Mab !  "  he  commanded  the  but- 
ler. "  It's  Mab  that  gets  the  green  eye  now !  He's 
written  it :  '  Ethel  Eastwood ! '  " 

In  the  general  amusement  Kendry  fixed  on  the 
smile  of  Mrs.  Eastwood,  which  seemed  to  proceed 
from  thoughts  more  than  she  might  have  cared  to  tell. 
He  tried  not  to  flush.  "  It's  aphasia,"  was  all  he 
could  say.  Mrs.  Eastwood's  attention  returned  to 


126  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

play  upon  the  girl,  watching  the  effect  upon  her  of  a 
surrounding  so  unusual,  and  the  effect,  shown  in  her 
mounting  color,  of  the  glass  she  had  emptied.  The 
youth  across  the  table  spoke  in  monosyllables,  his 
eyes  fluttering  about  the  girl's  features,  about  her 
dark  eyebrows  so  contrasted  with  her  hair,  and  haunt- 
ing the  corners  of  her  mouth,  wherein  there  registered 
in  hardly  distinguishable  miniature  the  reaction  of 
what  she  was  so  keenly  seeing  and  hearing.  Mary, 
Kendry  felt,  was  being  charming,  was  being  exclu- 
sive and  confidential  to  him.  Her  strain  held  to 
the  reminiscent — to  Europe  and  all  their  doings  to- 
gether. But,  under  his  fixed  look  to  her,  in  fear  of 
seeming  to  wander,  he  did  wander,  toward  Miss 
Marr,  as  perhaps  she  wandered  once  or  twice  toward 
him.  How  was  the  idea  faring?  Drudgery  was 
about  to  swallow  her.  Eastwood's  heavy  onslaughts, 
Kendry  believed,  would  have  been  enough  to  drive  her 
from  the  house.  Mary's  remaining  detached  and  ob- 
servant Kendry  was  not  yet  ready  to  resent;  he  gen- 
erously counted  on  Mary's  eventually  melting.  But 
from  this  there  arose  a  conflict  of  generosities,  close 
to  the  portal  of  the  idea.  The  idea,  hovering  about 
that  unprotected  youthful  loveliness,  so  superior  to 
its  outward  covering,  so  mild  without,  and  capable, 
he  knew,  of  such  fire  within,  made  the  conversa- 
tion— even  Mary's  present  conversation — seem  froth. 
Eastwood's  pounding  on  the  table  rose  above  the 
voices. 


A    GENERAL    ENGAGEMENT  127 

"  To  any  young  woman  with  amber  hair  who  can 
guess  where  I  was  this  afternoon,"  he  said  pro- 
nouncedly, "  I  will  give  a  jade  dragon  that  will  put 
that  one  off  the  stage."  Eyes  went  to  Miss  Marr.  It 
was  not  to  be  told  how  much  her  smile  now  owed  to 
Eastwood's  endeavors  to  please  and  how  much  to  the 
glass  he  had  concocted.  There  was  a  touch  in  her 
banter  that  somewhat  reassured  her  sponsor. 

"  Up  among  the  gallery  gods,"  she  guessed. 

"  Not  in  the  gallery !  In  a  box-factory,"  he 
chuckled.  "  The  bally  box-factory,"  he  glared 
through  a  smile  at  her,  "  which  does  not  yawn  for 
you  to-morrow  morning.  I  own  the  land  where  that 
shack  is  built;  I  know  the  man.  I  looked  inside  and 
saw  the  other  girls  employed  there.  My  dear  child, 
that's  impossible.  I  told  him,  on  your  behalf,  that 
you  didn't  want  the  work.  That  you  wouldn't  come 
to-morrow.  That  there  was  something  better  wait- 
ing for  you,"  he  declared. 

His  mother  pronounced  his  name.  The  girl's  color 
mounted  and  fled. 

"  I  think  that  was  ill-advised,"  she  said,  with  some 
loss  of  voice.  "  I  shall  go  there  to-morrow." 

"  He  hired  another  girl  instead,  on  the  spot,"  said 
Eastwood  calmly. 

"  Good  Heavens,  why  can't  you  stick  to  your  own 
affairs ! "  his  sister  burst.  Her  mother  frowned.  The 
youth  stared  with  dropped  jaw.  Miss  Marr  mastered 
herself. 


128  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

"  I  can't  quite  thank  you  for  this,"  she  said,  more 
firmly.  "  You  had  no  authority  to  speak  for  me." 

"  Telephone  down  now,"  said  Kendry,  trying  to 
maintain  a  neutral  voice,  "  rearrange  it  with  the 
man." 

"  Too  late,"  sang  Eastwood  comfortably.  "  Place 
is  closed.  I  did  this  on  behalf  " — he  rose,  thrusting 
up  his  glass — "  on  behalf  of  a  young  lady  who  is 
destined  for  corridors  as  far  removed  from  a  box- fac- 
tory as  Heaven  is  removed  from — hm — Harrisburg, 
Pennsylvania.  Of  a  young  lady,  who,  by  virtue  of 
her  physical  charm,  intellectual  attainments,  grace  and 
linguistic  accomplishments !  " — he  wandered  back  into 
his  art  of  fascination — "  is  facile  princess  and  e  pluri- 
bits  unum!" 

"  Your  Latin  and  your  taste  shamble  together,"  his 
sister  cut  at  him. 

"  Order ! "  Eastwood  pounded  on  the  table  with 
huge  enjoyment. 

"  Can't  you  halter  him?  "  Mary  rose  at  her  mother. 
Grace  Eastwood  took  her  understanding  gaze  from 
Ethel  Marr. 

"  Let  him  hang  himself,"  she  directed. 

"  Order !  "  Eastwood  cried.  "  And,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen— and  little  Tommy  Two- Eyes !  " — he  drew  up 
his  shoulders  with  mirth — "  I  most  humbly  and  sin- 
cerely propose  the  health,  the  prosperity,  and  the — 
cyclonic,  cometic,  epoch-making  social  success — of 
Miss  Ethel  Marr — standing!  " 


A    GENERAL    ENGAGEMENT  129 

They  stood  to  this  toast  in  a  silence,  Eastwood 
flourishing  his  glass  to  Miss  Marr  in  a  bid  for  her 
gracious  forgiveness.  Kendry  found  himself  still  on 
his  feet. 

"  Henry,  I  don't  approve  of  your  course  any  more 
than  I  approve  of  the  forces  that  cause  a  landslide.  I 
don't  think  you  had  the  least  right  to  assume  so 
much,"  he  said  to  the  older  man,  his  clearer  utterance 
contrasting.  "  But  if  the  landslide  shall  have  hap- 
pened, I  shall  be  bound  to  congratulate  myself  on  the 
results.  I  don't  want  Miss  Marr  to  lack  confidence  in 
her  abilities ;  I  don't  want  her  to  take  that  employ- 
ment. And  if  she's  forced  a  little  along  the  line  of 
her  evident  talent  for  modeling  I  believe  that,  while 
the  day  may  never  come  when  she'll  forgive  you, 
Henry,  the  day  will  come  when  she  will  forgive  me 
for  saying  that  I  am  glad  you  committed  your  indis- 
cretion." 

Grace  Eastwood  filled  the  gap  in  which  her  son 
swung  between  broad  possibilities  of  speech  and 
silence.  "  Well  said,"  she  nodded. 

"  Your  guest  gives  you  what  you  deserve,  little 
boy,"  said  Mary.  "  But  it's  for  Miss  Marr  to  respond 
to  the  toast.  I  know  she's  ready.  I  know  she's  self- 
possessed." 

"  You  don't  think  she's  come  prepared  for  an 
ordeal  like  that ! "  Kendry  demurred,  without  getting 
Mary's  eye. 

"  Speech !    Speech !  "  Eastwood  called  delightedly. 


130  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

"  Speech ! "  the  youth  dared  echo,  eager  that  the 
stage  be  swept  for  her.  Ethel  turned  gratefully  to 
Kendry.  To  their  surprise  she  rose.  Her  color  was 
high ;  her  wine  glass  lingered  in  her  fingers. 

"  I  like  to  try  at  things  that  are  hard  for  me  to  do," 
she  began  slowly.  "  I  have  never  done  anything  like 
this  before.  Probably  I  never  shall  again.  I  belong 
to  another  world.  Perhaps  that  pardons  me  for  stand- 
ing up  just  once  in  this  pleasant  light,  for  the  experi- 
ence of  it.  I  shouldn't  like  to  sit  down  without  tying 
the  moment  to  a  sentiment,  one  that  I  can  look  back 
on  without  ever  regretting.  I'm  fortunate  to  find  it  so 
near.  It's  one  that  transcends  all  ordinary  sentiments. 
I'm  here  because  I  met  Mr.  Kendry.  He  does  me  the 
honor  to  think  me  worthy  of  the  application  of  a  great 
idea.  He's  not  to  be  blamed  if  his  heart  is  better  than 
his  judgment.  He  doesn't  know" — she  leaned  for- 
ward for  one  catch  at  words — "  that  he's  already  ac- 
complished for  me  all  he  ever  can.  But  that's  so 
much.  He  has  made  me  acquainted  with  the  idea. 
I  believe  in  it.  I,  too,  shall  try  to  act  on  it,  in  my 
little  narrow  way.  Always  with  the  inspiration  of  hav- 
ing seen  some  one  capable  of  conceiving  it,  of  shaping 
his  career  to  it.  I  shall  see  him  pass  on  to  broader 
fields,  and  I  shall  hear  of  his  accomplishing  some- 
thing big,  something  with  an  element  of  immor- 
tality in  a  world  where  so  many  of  us  are  flippant  and 
striving  for  things  that  are  momentary  and  vain.  I 
don't  think  I  should  have  stood  up  to*  say  this,  if  it 


A    GENERAL    ENGAGEMENT  131 

hadn't  been  for  that  first  wine — if  it  was  wine?  "  she 
smiled.  "  But  I  should  have  felt  it.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Eastwood  thought  that  out  of  that  glass  the  truth 
would  come.  If  so,  he  was  right.  I  should  like  you 
to  drink  to  the  idea;  not  in  wine,  if  you  please — it's 
too  noble  an  idea  to  be  drunk  in  wine — but  in  water; 
water  which,  if  you  give  it  freedom,  always  proceeds 
at  once  to  greater  refinement,  which  makes  it  the  sym- 
bol for  Mr.  Kendry's  idea." 

The  mother  of  Mary  Eastwood  bent  over  Ethel's 
chair  and  kissed  her.  He  saw  it  through  some  warmth 
of  his  own  lids.  It  was  an  act  so  spontaneous,  so 
to  be  unexpected  of  Grace  Eastwood,  that  it  awed 
her  children.  He  was  to  detect  in  it  the  stir  of  mem- 
ories down  beneath  the  disillusionments  of  a  wife- 
hood  and  of  a  maturer  motherhood.  The  youth  beside 
her  remembered  that  he  still  was  standing.  The  but- 
ler recovered  from  a  motionless  study  of  that  young 
woman.  The  dinner  went  on  as  in  the  embers  glow- 
ing. Henry  Eastwood  became  low-voiced  and  sub- 
jective. There  was  a  period  during  which  Mary's 
attention  wandered  past  Kendry  to  the  girl  who  had 
not  faced  him  again ;  a  period  in  which  Mary's  intelli- 
gent agate  eyes  were  without  their  amusement  and 
condescension,  but  took  on  a  respect  that  perhaps  was 
tinged  with  something  like  apprehension.  The  true 
conversation  ran  on  between  the  youth  and  the  girl  of 
his  own  age.  The  atmosphere  had  changed;  all,  not 
because  a  young  woman,  without  stammering,  had 


132  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

spoken  words  that  perhaps  for  days  had  been  mutely 
framing,  but  because  what  she  had  said  was  the  clear 
ringing  of  a  bell  unmuffled  by  fear  or  designing,  when 
struck  with  a  purpose  by  a  world  that  could  seek  its 
little  ends  by  devious  means. 


CHAPTER   X 

A   WHIRL,   IN   OBSCURITY 

THEY  were  a  perfunctory  four  who  drove  down  the 
hill  in  a  hired  carriage.  Each  held  to  his  own  preoc- 
cupation, which  was,  in  part,  a  searching  as  to  what 
the  preoccupation  was  of  one  of  the  others.  Also 
Kendry  was  recalling  a  dialogue  that  had  not  been 
meant  for  his  ears  between  Mrs.  Eastwood  and  Miss 
Marr,  in  front  of  the  Donatello  child.  Eastwood  and 
Mary  had  left  Kendry  in  the  adjoining  room,  examin- 
ing a  picture. 

"  You  don't  see  how  it  would  lead  on  ?  "  he  heard 
Grace  Eastwood  coax.  "I  don't  mean  great  works; 
that's  Mary's  illusion.  I  mean  the  life,  the  people,  the 
interest,  the  possibilities." 

"I  couldn't,"  Ethel  sighed  to  her.  "I  couldn't 
unless  I  knew  that  I  must,  and  some  day  could,  pro- 
duce something  as  beautiful  as  this."  There  was  a 
pause,  as  of  a  look. 

"  Some  day  you  will,"  Grace  Eastwood  breathed  to 
her.  "Only,  it  will  be  more  beautiful.  It  will  cry 
and  snuggle  its  head  to  you.  Then  you'll  not  envy 
any  man  in  the  world." 

So  strangely  it  sounds  to  youth  from  its  elders  when 
133 


134  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

for  a  flash  they  acknowledge  the  Prime  Vocation.  It 
awed  Jack  Kendry  with  a  sense  of  his  responsibility, 
infinitely  broadening,  for  everything  that  should  fol- 
low in  the  life  of  Ethel  Marr  from  the  departure  he 
had  caused  in  it.  The  thought  sank  down  and  lodged 
against  the  corked  bottle  wherein  lay  the  recollection 
of  Paulter. 

They  drove  through  the  colors  and  savors  of  the 
quarter  to  where,  for  white  clients,  the  stage  door  was 
the  customary  access  to  the  Chinese  theater.  The 
slope  of  the  hill  brought  this  door  to  that  lower  level, 
half  under  ground,  where  the  actors,  the  musicians 
and  more  than  fifty  other  employes  ate  and  slept  in 
an  extraordinary  economy  of  space.  It  was  a  hive 
of  cells,  each  the  length,  breadth,  and  height  of  one 
man,  and  each  occupied  by  two.  Those  whom  East- 
wood encountered  as  he  stooped  to  lead  his  single 
file  stepped  into  low  doorways  to  give  passage.  His 
sister  followed,  attentive  on  her  skirts,  her  footing,  her 
safety,  her  beleaguered  senses.  On  these  beat  the 
odors  of  salted  sea-food,  of  cooking  vegetables  and 
pork,  of  pungent  Kwangtung  tobacco  and  of  opium. 
The  close  contact  with  the  thick-lipped  yellow  faces, 
familiar  to  her  in  the  open,  kept  her  eyes  averted. 
The  costume  in  that  atmosphere  was  a  pair  of  slippers 
held  on  by  upturned  toes,  and  two  thin  cotton  gar- 
ments shrinking  from  the  extremities.  Dim  lights 
made  shadowy  pictures  through  the  smoke,  of  men  who 
lounged  or  lay  asleep  or  comatose  in  their  bunks,  to 


A    WHIRL   IN   OBSCURITY  135 

the  voices,  the  clatter  of  dishes,  the  dulled  clangor  of 
the  orchestra  overhead.  It  was  not  squalor,  it  was 
too  much  alive,  too  cannily,  methodically  efficient; 
under  a  scheme  which  squarely  could  treat  men  as 
mechanical  appliances.  It  could  go  on  forever,  the 
machinery  of  an  art,  though  the  world  should  be  with- 
out green  grass  or  blue  sky  or  the  air  of  the  sea. 
Kendry  thought  of  the  home  of  these  quantities — the 
mountain.  The  Nymph  of  those  happy  slopes,  her 
eyes  glistening  with  novel  curiosity  and  bafflement, 
her  live  nostrils  compressed  for  the  one  protest  she 
had  to  make,  was  in  no  haste  to  pursue  Mary  East- 
wood. The  girl's  keen  impressions  rebounded  to 
Kendry,  with  bright  thanks  for  his  conductorship.  It 
could  not  but  cause  him  to  picture  her  ascending  some 
Italian  tower,  garden  scented,  where  straight  cypresses 
shot  across  a  skyline  seen  through  the  loopholes. 
Had  he  been  Mary,  he  protested,  this  one  sight  of 
Ethel  Marr's  enjoyment  at  an  escape  from  her  im- 
pounded life  would  have  made  him  bear  her  off  to 
where  her  heart  could  sing  to  backgrounds  of  a 
measure  with  her  beauty.  He  could  not  understand 
the  attitude  of  Mary ;  eventually  he  should  clearly  say 
to  her — but  Miss  Marr  stopped  on  a  winding  stair 
where  their  heads  must  bow.  The  others  had  gone 
above  and  out  of  sight.  She  held  her  skirts  about 
her,  offering  her  free  hand. 

"  Good-by !  "   she  said,  shining  her  gratitude.     It 
was  as  if  she  were  finishing  her  dinner  speech.     Her 


136  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

trust  in  him,  her  acceptance  of  the  fact  of  the  Dona- 
tello,  the  dragon,  obviously  binding  him  to  Mary 
Eastwood,  was  as  clear  as  a  moment's  sparkle  in  a 
brook  he  might  be  crossing  and  leaving  behind. 

"  It  shall  not  be  good-by!"  he  rose,  with  a  blessed 
wholeness,  tight  upon  her  hand.  The  flash  of  it  went 
a  little  deeper  than  her  self-possession,  startled  her, 
made  her  glance  with  some  new  question  that  in- 
stantly melted  in  her  smile.  She  went  on  ahead  of 
him.  If  she  had  any  hurt  from  Mary  she  might  know 
that  her  sponsor  was  as  firm  as  rock,  Kendry  defiantly 
registered.  Bringing  Mary  to  acknowledge  the  love- 
ableness  of  Ethel  Marr  would  be  bringing  Mary  one 
step  nearer  to  himself,  he  believed.  He  caught  up  the 
Eastwoods  at  the  head  of  the  stairway.  Mary  was 
collecting  her  petticoats,  frowning  at  the  din. 

They  were  in  a  passage  lined  with  brass-bound  cof- 
fers where  the  players  kept  their  costumes.  It  was 
Ethel's  not  waiting  for  Kendry  that  brought  her  into 
the  lead  with  Eastwood.  He  drew  aside  a  hanging; 
the  ladies  found  themselves  at  once  in  the  center  of 
the  light,  the  voices,  the  action  on  the  stage,  the 
orchestral  din,  before  the  dark-hatted  hundreds  filling 
the  spectators'  space  from  top  to  smoky  bottom. 
Mary  Eastwood  hesitated.  Miss  Marr  moved  with 
all-absorbing  gaze  in  which  Eastwood  was  a  minor 
point  at  the  side,  fixed  for  her  destination.  Kendry 
could  not  have  analyzed  his  masculine  satisfaction  at 
her  unconscious  full  subjectiveness  to  the  scene.  He 


A    WHIRL   IN   OBSCURITY  137 

had  not  yet  made  the  generalization  that  the  women 
of  his  time  and  place  combated  subjectiveness  and 
clung  to  reservations  through  their  moments  of  high- 
est emotion.  But  it  added  a  thrill  to  his  champion- 
ship of  her.  The  white  spectators  sat  on  wooden 
chairs  at  right  and  left  of  the  stage,  with  the  orches- 
tra at  the  back,  beside  the  single  entrance  to  the  stage. 
The  girl  was  held  fascinated  by  one  whose  stately 
walk,  like  that  of  some  monarch  fowl,  whose  gown 
and  head-dress  glittering  with  silk  and  gold  and  facets 
of  silvered  glass,  proclaimed  him  a  mighty  personage 
of  the  drama.  Mary  smiled  at  her. 

"  Do  you  notice,"  she  whispered,  "  her  poise,  her 
assurance,  her  making  that  '  entrance '  like  a  veteran  ? 
Why  have  you  not  thought  of  the  stage  for  her  ?  " 

She  was  not  prepared  for  his  shortness;  it  came 
from  an  undigested  prejudice  he  had  about  theatrical 
life. 

"  Because  I  respect  her,"  he  said.  He  added  noth- 
ing mollifying,  though  he  felt  Mary  lean  away  from 
him  in  a  muteness  that  was  to  continue.  There  was 
in  all  the  clangor  and  stridency  that  divided  their  at- 
tention something  not  so  easily  dismissed  as  noise. 
It  might  have  been  the  mere  rapid  striking  on  the  ear 
of  cymbal  and  gong,  of  stone  drum  and  snakeskin 
drum,  in  terms  of  rhythm  rather  than  of  melody, 
against  the  soaring  of  the  fiddle  and  the  squeaking 
of  the  reed.  But  its  effect,  with  here  and  there  the 
suggesting  of  a  melody  hovering  to  be  swallowed  in 


138  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

the  din,  was  barbarously  stimulating,  bound  to  haunt 
the  memory.  It  was  as  though  the  overpowering  per- 
cussives  crashing  through  the  phlegmatic  exterior  of 
a  race  made  a  breach  for  that  small  singing  of  the 
strings  with  its  burden  of  the  inescapable  yearning  and 
melancholy. 

The  conventions  of  that  stage,  calling  for  so  much 
to  be  imagined  in  scene  and  property  did  not  prevent 
the  packed  hundreds  swaying  as  one  from  the 
comic  to  the  solemn.  The  ascending  tiers  of  benches 
might  have  been  drawn  each  with  two  dark  brush- 
strokes for  hats  and  bodies,  with  an  intervening  stroke 
of  sallow  for  the  faces,  all  through  a  blur  ascending 
from  inevitable  black  cigars.  The  single  bit  of  color 
came  from  a  corner  in  the  gallery — the  gilt  ornaments 
in  the  oily  hair  of  the  women  looking  down  on  the 
stage,  bald-foreheaded,  robed  in  glossy  black.  No 
eye  strayed  upward  to  this  corner  and  the  women 
stayed  intent  upon  the  stage.  In  the  front  row, 
dressed  like  all  the  others,  Kendry  saw  Chan  Kow, 
if  it  was  Chan  Kow.  The  man's  face,  like  a  pumpkin 
in  a  row  of  gourds,  answered  Chan  Kow's  description 
of  himself.  The  straight-brimmed  soft  hat  was  over 
his  eyes;  his  long  cigar  added  its  clouds  to  the  semi- 
obscurity.  The  scene  of  the  play  was  on  the  bank 
of  a  river,  represented  by  two  chairs.  A  second  gor- 
geous personage  had  tottered  into  the  light,  all  con- 
vincing save  for  his  height,  simulating  the  difficult 
step  of  the  small-foot  woman.  This  falsetto  lady 


A    WHIRL    IN    OBSCURITY  139 

delivered  lines  which  it  was  fortunate  could  not  be 
understood  by  the  fan  kwai  so  decorously  listening  on 
the  wooden  chairs.  If  that  was  Chan  Kow  in  front 
the  lines  put  him  in  the  most  enjoyed  of  moods.  The 
deft  eloquence  of  the  lady's  fan  was  for  Kendry  one 
of  a  circle  of  impressions  which  revolved  with  increas- 
ing rapidity.  There  was  his  own  glance  at  Mary, 
on  whom  the  stridor,  the  smoke,  the  distasteful  Ori- 
ental visage  were  working  a  restlessness.  There  was 
his  noticing  the  long  sleeve  of  the  actor,  extended 
out  toward  that  doubtful  identity  filling  wide  space 
in  the  front  row,  illuminating  an  intimate  style  of 
address  that  struck  the  humor  of  the  audience.  Ethel 
Marr  has  ceased  to  follow  the  player's  movement. 
Kendry  laid  her  lessened  color  to  the  atmosphere;  it 
called  for  proposing  an  early  withdrawal  from  the 
place.  The  orchestra  was  mute  but  for  the  striking 
of  a  resonant  stone,  now  coldly  punctuating  more 
tragic  utterance.  Kendry  followed  one  quick  glance 
of  Ethel  Marr  to  the  other  section  of  the  white  audi- 
ence, across  the  stage.  He  saw  the  ears  of  Collins 
and  beside  Collins,  with  a  mouth  intently  set,  glaring 
at  Ethel  Marr,  with  his  body  strangely  forward  as  if 
braced  for  action,  he  saw  Paulter.  The  small-foot 
woman  stopped  her  speech,  pointing  to  the  great  round 
head  in  the  front  row.  She  spoke  a  word  and  waited. 
A  stroke  on  the  stone  heightened  the  still  expectancy. 
All  the  lights  in  the  house  went  out  together.  There 
was  a  flash  as  from  the  actor's  sleeve  and  the  report  of 


140  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

a  pistol.  There  were  screams  and  cries  in  the  dark 
and  the  overturning  of  chairs. 

Kendry  remembered  the  clutch  of  Mary  upon  his 
arm,  his  pushing  back  his  chair,  his  attempts  to  lead 
her.  So  many  voices  were  calling  that  he  could  not 
distinguish  hers.  He  was  knocked  over  in  a  rush  of 
many  feet  across  the  stage.  The  pistol  shots  went  on. 
He  rose,  groping  for  her.  His  hand  grasped  a  skirt 
that  was  snatched  away  from  him.  He  felt  for  the 
chairs.  A  torrent  of  the  audience  mounting  the  stage 
and  stumbling  over  them  carried  him  on  the  way  to  the 
regions  below.  He  fought  out  of  it,  he  could  not  tell 
in  what  direction,  calling  to  Miss  Marr.  Another 
mass  \vas  overturning  benches  at  the  back  of  the 
auditorium,  struggling  for  the  exit  to  the  street. 
Some  one  brought  a  light.  The  benches  were  empty. 
The  belated  of  the  black  mob  surged  around  the  two 
ways  of  escape.  The  body  ,of  a  man  hung  over  the 
first  of  the  benches.  Kendry  leapt  down  to  him.  In 
the  gloom  he  could  not  distinguish  the  blood-stained 
features.  The  man  with  the  faint  wick  floating  in  a 
saucer  of  nut  oil  looked  down  at  Kendry  without  ex- 
pression. The  victim  recognized  the  shadow  of  a  fan 
kwai.  He  struggled  to  rise. 

"  Suey  Lee — bad — bad  man !  "  he  choked,  pointing 
where  the  actor  had  stood.  He  fell  back  as  if  lifeless. 
The  lamp-bearer  picked  up  the  battered  cymbals  and 
tried  to  straighten  them  out.  The  theater  became 
vacant  and  still. 


A    WHIRL    IN    OBSCURITY  141 

In  the  narrow  spaces  below  Kendry  was  thrust  aside 
with  many  others  while  several  policemen  and  night 
watchmen  crowded  past.  When  he  reached  the  air 
the  curious  had  begun  to  block  the  alley.  The  East- 
woods' carriage  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  hurried 
around  to  the  main  entrance.  In  the  gathered  crowd 
he  could  see  no  familiar  face.  He  returned  to  the 
alley.  There  was  no  one.  He  started  toward  Tele- 
graph Hill. 

A  block  farther  and  he  stopped.  Why  \vas  he  not 
going  in  the  direction  of  Mary  Eastwood's?  It  was 
because  Henry,  alone  with  the  two,  first  would  have 
proceeded  to  Miss  Marr's  and  leaving  her,  would  then 
go  home  with  his  sister.  He  should  intercept  Mary 
and  her  brother  returning.  This  had  been  his  un- 
conscious cerebration,  he  told  himself.  If  it  was 
equally  probable  that  Eastwood,  making  a  trio  to  his 
own  house,  would  return  agreeably  alone  with  Miss 
Marr  on  the  longer  distance  to  Telegraph  Hill,  Ken- 
dry  found  it  now  too  late  to  hesitate.  Yet  he  was  not 
wholly  of  a  mind  with  his  steps ;  that  was  what  caused 
him  to  lose  time  by  not  taking  an  electric  car  to  the 
foot  of  the  hill.  As  he  hurried  up  those  wooden  cleats 
the  recollection  of  Paulter  added  to  the  violence  of  his 
heart.  He  was  convinced  that  it  had  not  been  a  coin- 
cidence; in  any  case  he  was  growing  too  weary  of 
meeting  Paulter's  hostile  glare  and  ignoring  it.  If  it 
was  Paulter  who  had  knocked  him  over  once  more 
unawares  the  climax  of  the  ridiculous  had  happened. 


142  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

Paulter  might  appear  at  Miss  Marr's  door.  Kendry 
hoped  he  would.  He  turned  a  gloomy  corner  and 
quickly  stopped.  It  was  Eastwood. 

"  You  took  her  home?"  Kendry  panted. 

"  No,"  said  Eastwood  shortly.  "  Did  you  take  her 
somewhere?  " 

"No,"  said  Kendry.  Eastwood  coldly  looked  at 
him. 

"  Which  one?  "  Eastwood  suddenly  asked. 

"Which  one?"  Kendry  echoed.  He  shook  his 
head.  "  Either  of  them."  Eastwood  took  in  a 
breath. 

"  Then  where's  Mary  ?  "  he  burst. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Kendry.  "You  didn't  see 
Miss ?" 

"  Did  you  expect  to  find  Mary  up  here?  "  Eastwood 
rose.  "  Say,  I  want  to  know  who  that  thug  is  who 
came  to  her  door."  He  pointed  toward  the  Marrs'. 
"Breaking  his  damned  head  is  what  I  was  born  for." 

"  Not  till  I  get  a  chance,"  said  Kendry  in  a  mood  to 
let  no  one  be  more  aggressive  than  himself.  East- 
wood's rage  went  up  another  notch. 

"  What  the  devil  have  you  to  do  with  it?  "  he  said. 
"  Where's  my  sister?  "  The  younger  man  was  silent 
and  diminished,  biting  his  lip. 

"  Come  along  to  a  telephone,"  he  wheeled.  They 
hurried  down  the  hill  without  speaking.  Too  many 
conjectures  were  in  Kendry's  mind  for  him  to  catch 
the  main  obsession  of  Eastwood.  Weight  settled 


A    WHIRL    IN    OBSCURITY  143 

more  heavily  on  his  heart.  Reason  receded.  He 
could  not  name  his  trouble.  It  was  of  a  nature  that, 
when  a  drunken  roysterer  reeled  against  him,  made  him 
bowl  the  man  into  the  gutter  with  the  flat  of  his  hand 
under  the  man's  chin.  Eastwood  grunted  ironically. 
They  ran  and  hung  on  to  the  step  of  an  electric  car. 
Presently  Eastwood  turned  to  him: 

"  I  don't  need  you  to  help  me  find  her !  Good 
night !  "  He  dropped  off  and  pushed  open  the  swing- 
ing doors  of  a  saloon,  seeking  a  telephone.  Kendry 
went  on  in  a  daze.  He  saw  his  hotel  and  jumped 
down  and  got  to  his  room.  He  rang  up  the  East- 
wood house ;  the  line  was  reported  "  busy."  Then 
he  found  in  the  book  the  number  of  the  Marrs'. 

"  Yes,  and  she's  got  you  sized  up!"  came  Paulter's 
voice.  "  She's  cut  out  your  wire !  You  just  hang 
up!" 

A  card  was  brought  him: 


M.   CLARENCE    DE    PRESLES 


CERCLE    INTERNATIONALE,  VALPARAISO 


Collins  followed  the  bell-boy  in. 

"  You  are  not  De  Presles !  "  Kendry  glared  at  him. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  the  man  with  the  ears,  comfortably. 
He  opened  his  coat  and  showed  a  Secret-Service 
badge.  "  My  name's  Kelly,"  he  said,  with  a  quiet 


144  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

smile.  "  Sorry  I  got  on  your  nerves  in  the  course  of 
my  business." 

Kendry    stared   at    him    and    stared    at   the    card. 

"  Show  the  gentleman  up/'  he  commanded.  Kelly 
closed  the  door  after  the  bell-boy. 

"  Can  I  count  on  you  to  help  the  Government  in 
this  case  ?  "  he  said.  "  We  want  to  put  Paulter  be- 
hind the  bars." 

"  You  can ! "  Kendry  exulted.  "  I'll  go  alone  and 
get  him  in  fifteen  minutes  if  you'll  give  me  the 
authority." 

M.  Clarence  de  Presles  could  not  have  waited  pa- 
tiently for  an  answer  to  his  card.  He  entered  almost 
immediately.  He  cast  one  glance  at  Kelly,  who  had 
hidden  his  badge. 

"Bon  soir,  mon  cher  Monsieur!"  Monsieur  de 
Presles  formally  saluted  Kendry,  his  silk  hat  in  his 
hand.  He  was  in  faultless  evening  dress.  His  black 
hair  fell  from  the  center  of  his  scalp  and  conventionally 
covered  his  crown.  He  had  eyebrows.  He  had  cut 
off  his  cue. 


CHAPTER    XI 

TWO    HOME-GOINGS 

IN  the  uproar  after  the  lights  had  gone  out  in  the 
Chinese  theater,  Ethel  Marr  had  turned  toward  the 
space  in  the  dark  where,  a  moment  before,  her  eyes 
had  met  Kendry's.  Her  one  round  exclamation 
brought  Eastwood's  hand  to  her  arm.  He  started  to 
draw  her  toward  the  back  of  the  stage,  over  the  fallen 
chairs.  They  were  caught  in  a  rush  of  the  frightened 
spectators  who  aimed  to  escape  by  the  stage.  The 
girl  emerged  breathless  and  alone.  Some  one  else  took 
a  silent  grip  on  her  arm.  She  heard  his  lips  close  to 
her  ear,  speaking  above  the  din,  and  her  fear  dropped 
to  disappointment.  She  mutely  surrendered  to  Paul- 
ter  while  he  fought  a  way  for  her.  Her  mind  went 
back  to  the  others ;  the  tragedy  of  the  four  pistol  shots 
had  swept  past  her  preoccupation.  For  a  moment  she 
stood  against  a  wall,  loose-fingered,  in  the  black  dark- 
ness of  a  passage  the  crowd  had  not  discovered.  The 
appearance  of  Paulter  was  but  a  return,  a  little  sooner 
than  expected,  of  the  cloud  that  must  engulf  her. 
Parting  thus  would  save  some  insincerities  with  Mary 
Eastwood,  and  save  the  difficult  endeavor,  under 
Mary's  increasingly  watchful  eyes,  to  seem  as  defi- 
es 


146  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

nitely  bidding  farewell  to  Mr.  Kendry  as  she  was. 
Paulter  brought  her  to  a  cab  on  another  side  street. 
That  was  his  extravagance,  his  bravado ;  it  helped  her 
to  believe  that  he  had  taken  supper  with  her  mother, 
had  heard  Ethel's  telephone  message  reciting  her  pro- 
gramme for  the  evening,  and  had  spied  upon  her  ar- 
rival at  the  theater  with  the  Eastwoods.  She  entered 
the  cab  without  protest.  She  knew  what  manner  of 
talk  would  ensue.  She  could  protect  herself  from  his 
vehemence  by  a  mildness  that  would  vaguely  hold 
forth  to  him  a  hope  of  her  melting  and  would  lead 
him  on  tiptoe  lest  he  break  the  spell.  It  was  degrad- 
ing; only  once  of  late,  and  then  under  the  inspiration 
of  her  communion  with  Kendry,  she  had  spoken  her 
full  thought  to  Paulter,  willing  to  meet  his  violent  rage. 
Now  her  apparent  exhaustion  made  her  seem  to  him 
helpless  and  docile  while,  under  the  cover  of  an  occa- 
sional monosyllable,  her  thoughts  dwelt  on  the  three 
whom  she  pictured  driving  in  their  carrriage  up  into 
their  other  world.  So  she  drove  toward  the  foot  of 
her  barren  hill,  a  little  more  than  alone  on  account  of 
the  presence  of  Arthur  Paulter. 

Those  shots,  ringing  into  the  blankness  of  Mary 
Eastwood's  ennui  in  a  surrounding  so  barbarous  and 
odorous,  had  brought  her  sharp  cries  above  the  shouts 
of  the  men.  She  had  clutched  at  her  brother  and  felt 
him  move  away  from  her.  Her  voice,  sharply  appeal- 
ing to  him  in  the  darkness,  was  lost  in  the  increased 
clamor,  the  trampling,  the  falling  of  chairs.  Some 


TWO    HOME-GOINGS  147 

bony  hand  had  seized  her  wrist.  The  man  reeked  of 
the  place.  He  tried  to  make  her  understand  him. 
She  fought  him  off  and  was  tossed  against  a  wall, 
along  which  she  groped  till  the  man  once  more  laid 
hold  of  her.  While  she  scolded  him  he  pushed  her 
into  a  passage  and  through  doors,  past  dim  lights  in 
narrow  spaces.  Then  she  fled  before  him  into  the 
welcome  air  of  the  alley  whence  they  had  entered  the 
theater.  The  carriage  there  was  not  hers;  the  alley 
was  jammed  with  alien  faces.  Instinctively  she 
pushed  her  way  to  the  one  man  in  European  clothes. 
He  pushed  to  meet  her  and  under  a  raised  silk  hat 
asked  her  in  French  if  she  spoke  his  language.  His 
graciousness,  his  powerful  frame,  brought  her  the 
breath  of  relief.  She  volubly  explained  her  plight 
while  he  stood  uncovered,  voicing  his  sympathy.  His 
was  a  great,  round  keen-eyed  face — from  the  south 
of  France,  Mary  at  first  fixed  him.  Her  impatience 
rose  at  Jack  Kendry ;  that  he  should  live  in  a  part  of 
the  world  she  called  the  ragged  edge  of  civilization, 
and  that  he  should  bring  her  to  its  most  sodden 
quarter.  Monsieur,  so  deferentially  opening  his  car- 
riage door  to  her,  carried  the  atmosphere  of  another 
society. 

"  If  Madame  will  join  my  sister-in-law  ?  "  he  said, 
"  we  will  leave  this  canaille.  Then  I  will  return  to 
Madame  with  the  gentlemen." 

In  the  dim  interior  Monsieur's  companion  drew  aside 
her  skirts  and  smiled  a  welcome.  It  was  like  a  plunge 


148  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

into  the  old  world's  safety,  Mary  volubly  declared, 
leaning  her  disheveled  head  against  the  cushions.  She 
was  too  much  taken  up  with  her  sensations  and  emo- 
tions to  examine  the  other  woman ;  she  was  too  grow- 
ingly  disdainful  of  a  pair  of  men  so  wanting  at  a 
crisis,  the  one  in  love  with  and  the  other  in  quixotic 
apposition  with  a  piece  of  fresh  but  unstamped  beauty. 
What  a  relief  to  be  out  of  that  gaping,  fulsome  crowd, 
she  went  on  to  Monsieur.  Cochons  de  Chinois,  Mon- 
sieur responded,  in  full  sympathy.  It  was  a  long  way 
from  Paris,  if.  Madame  would  pardon  him.  The 
sentiment  was  met  by  a  deep  acquiescence  from  Mary 
while  she  sought  to  restore  her  head-dress.  The  car- 
riage ceased  to  rock  from  the  unevenness  of  the 
cobblestones;  the  red  reflection  of  a  street  lamp 
shining  on  a  wall  covered  with  advertisements  in 
Chinese  shone  in  on  Mary's  long  endeavors.  Mon- 
sieur alighted. 

He  would  return  with  the  others ;  there  were  three, 
if  he  recalled.  She  caught  his  profile,  his  heavy  lips, 
his  blunt  nose,  the  straight  black  hair  plastered  over 
the  top  of  his  head.  He  was  some  mixture  of  blood 
from  a  French  province,  she  guessed — Tahiti,  for 
choice ;  but  a  gentleman ;  that  half  portion  of  Norman 
blood  did  what  endless  wealth  could  not  do  in  the 
provincial  West.  To  the  woman  at  her  side  Mary 
poured  forth  her  vexation  at  being  left  alone,  her  con- 
tempt for  her  brother's  infatuation  for  a  pliant  young 
thing,  all  through  the  medium  of  a  glorification  of 


TWO    HOME-GOINGS  149 

France,  whose  language,  she  said,  was  the  only  one  in 
which  she  wholly  could  express  herself — until  it  oc- 
curred to  her  to  hear  the  other  woman's  tongue. 

"He's  gone  after  the  other  three,"  that  lady  ir- 
relevantly spoke  in  American.  There  was  no  foreign 
accent  in  that  coarse  voice — a  case  of  education  in 
some  western  minor  school  for  girls,  Mary  reasoned. 
"  He'll  sure  come  back,"  the  voice  found  it  advisable  to 
protest.  A  belle-sceur  of  a  poorer  strain,  Mary  ob- 
served, a  common  accident  in  the  dependencies,  where 
women  are  less  numerous.  At  the  best  she  would 
have  been  inferior  to  Monsieur ;  it  was  only  in  Amer- 
ica that  the  women  were  superior  to  their  men,  she 
reflected.  An  odor  of  violet  perfume  strongly  filled 
the  carriage,  she  found  time  to  suffer.  She  leaned 
back  and  kept  her  nostrils  closed.  In  the  silence  she 
glanced  at  the  cheek  of  her  companion  and  detected 
rouge.  Monsieur  came  back  alone. 

"  One  of  the  two  gentlemen  left  the  theater  and  went 
north,  with  a  young  lady  who  had  copper-colored  hair. 
The  other  gentleman  has  just  gone  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, alone,"  said  Monsieur.  Mary  caught  her 
breath. 

"  They  both  ?  "  she  shut  her  teeth.  "  I  came  in  a 
carriage;  but  I  shall  return  in  a  street  car — going 
west,"  she  shrugged. 

"  Impossible,  Madame !  "  said  Monsieur,  pained  at 
the  thought.  "  We  shall  do  ourselves  the  honor  of 
driving  Madame  to  her  door.  Madame's  husband 


150  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

would  rightly  think  ill  of  us,  if  we  did  not  beg  the 
privilege." 

The  cutting  quality  of  her  thanks  was  not  intended 
for  Monsieur.  She  made  haste  to  show  him  that. 
Monsieur  responded  with  sympathy.  He  would  have 
followed  the  second  gentleman  if  he  had  but  identi- 
fied him  in  the  theater;  but  he  had  had  to  take  the 
word  of  a  bystander.  His  own  glance  from  the  en- 
trance on  the  stage,  where  he  had  arrived  just  the 
moment  before  the  lights  went  out,  had  been  absorbed 
entirely  by  the  two  ladies  of  Madame's  party,  two 
contrasting  types  of  unusual  beauty,  Monsieur  begged 
to  name  them,  notable  even  in  a  land  of  charming 
contrasts.  He  had  been  startled  by  the  younger  lady, 
with  the  copper  hair,  the  dark  eyebrows,  because  cer- 
tainly she  was  one  whom  he  had  come  to  San  Fran- 
cisco to  see.  She  was,  unless  Madame  should  correct 
him,  the  daughter  of  a  sea  captain  he  once  had  known 
in  Tahiti — a  handsome,  blue-eyed  man,  fit  for  the 
straight-out  battles  with  wind  and  water  rather  than 
for  the  feverish  stratagems  of  land. 

Monsieur  was,  then,  from  Tahiti?  Mary  turned 
his  question.  Monsieur  reflected ;  Madame  had  visited 
Tahiti?  No?  It  was  his  birthplace;  he  spent  a  few 
months  there  each  year,  compelled  by  his  affairs.  His 
losing  these  moments  on  his  way  to  the  Continent  was 
due  to  his  search  for  the  young  lady  with  the  copper 
hair.  There  was  coming  to  her  a  small  legacy,  or 
more  strictly,  a  debt  long  owed  her  father  and  now 


TWO   HOME-GOINGS  151 

collected.  Perhaps  Madame  could  tell  him  more 
about  the  young  woman,  for  the  fatherly  interest  he 
felt  in  the  orphan  of  his  friend.  Mary  regretted  that 
she  was  unable  to.  The  young  woman  had  served  her 
for  a  short  time  as  a  model — ah,  Madame  was  an 
artist — it  explained  her  fine  intellectual  head.  The 
young  woman,  Mary  said,  had  served  her  solely  in  a 
professional  way;  she  was  doubtless  a  worthy  person, 
of  whose  private  circle  Mary  knew  nothing. 

It  would  have  proved  an  amusing  one,  Monsieur 
could  well  think,  since  it  appeared  to  consist  of  one 
young  man,  who  was  in  love  with  her — a  young  man 
of  one  of  the  best  families.  It  had  been  Monsieur's 
thought  that  Madame  could  identify  that  young  man — 
reported  of  a  fine  skin,  a  strong-cut  jaw,  a  thought- 
ful eye;  given  to  theories  about  benefiting  the  world, 
Monsieur  had  vaguely  heard — fantastic  theories  in- 
volving a  strange  state  of  conscience  which  referred 
its  acts  to  some  ultimate  conception  of  the  universe. 
The  dramatic  complication,  said  Monsieur,  was  that 
the  young  man  had  engaged  himself  to  a  woman  half 
a  dozen  years  his  senior,  prior  to  meeting  his  younger 
affinity.  Madame  perhaps  would  know  the  older 
lady,  who  also  followed  the  arts — a  sculptress. 

It  was  amusing.  Mary  cut  the  air;  but  she  must 
explain  to  Monsieur  that  San  Francisco  was  her 
Tahiti;  social  affairs  did  not  bring  her  here.  She 
saw  little  of  the  people;  their  concerns  did  not  enter- 
tain her. 


152  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

The  older  lady,  Monsieur  held  somewhat  obtusely 
to  his  theme,  as  if  he  had  a  fixed  amount  to  say — was 
estimable,  of  a  distinguished  family.  She  was,  of 
course,  in  ignorance  of  the  true  leaning  of  the  young 
man's  affections,  otherwise  her  pride  doubtless  would 
resolve  quickly  the  situation,  with  that  independence 
and  decision,  Monsieur  remarked,  so  to  be  admired 
in  American  women.  They  would  have  their  hus- 
bands come  to  them  without  reservation,  or  they  would 
remain  spinsters,  which,  owing  to  their  rare  charm, 
grace,  fascination,  Monsieur  reveled,  they  rarely  did 
remain. 

The  situation  was  indeed  one  of  dramatic  possi- 
bilities, Mary  dryly  told  him.  And  the  younger  lady — 
her  sentiments  ? 

Monsieur  threw  open  his  hands.  When  one  is 
young,  when  Prince  Charming  is  cultivated,  dreamy, 
handsome,  full  of  undeveloped  forces — and  when  a 
girl  suffers  from  a  poverty,  an  isolation,  yet  knowing 
the  power  her  beauty  could  yield  in  more  congruous 
environment — ah,  the  answer  was  not  difficult !  There 
was,  of  course,  opposition  on  the  part  of  a  mother, 
who — but  pardon  Monsieur  for  babbling  on  as  to  a 
matter  of  more  interest  to  his  own  fatherly  heart  than 
it  possibly  could  be  to  a  woman  of  the  great  world, 
such  as  Madame.  They  rattled  across  close  to  a 
cable  car  clanging  its  insistent  gong;  the  headlight 
shone  for  a  moment  through  the  carriage  windows. 
Monsieur's  sister-in-law  might  have  been  taken  off 


TWO    HOME-GOINGS  153 

the  streets  of  San  Francisco,  Mary  covertly  shrugged. 
A  curious  place,  this  San  Francisco,  Monsieur  affably 
went  on;  remarkably  favored  by  the  hand  of  God 
and  rather  badly  disfigured  here  and  there  by  the  hand 
of  man.  The  Park,  yes — and  also  the  mountain 
across  the  Gate,  the  zig-zag  railroad  journey  to  the 
summit,  the  sublime  view  of  the  sea  and  the  distant 
Sierra.  There  one  could,  for  a  moment,  forget  the 
adjacent  works  of  man.  Yet  for  him — yes,  Paris — to 
die  in. 

Undoubtedly,  Mary  less  effusively  said.  She 
hoped  never  to  have  to  return  here.  Life  was  too 
short,  unless  one  had  the  hardened  susceptibilities  of 
a  pioneer.  Monsieur  agreed.  He  should,  perhaps, 
have  the  honor  of  receiving  a  bow  from  her,  some 
day,  carriage  to  carriage,  in  the  Bois. 

But  he  declined  her  offer  of  refreshment.  He  rang 
Mary's  bell.  They  parted  in  the  grand  manner,  his 
corpulence  surrendering  to  his  correctness  of  costume 
and  of  pose.  A  little  whiff  of  vleux  Europe,  despite 
the  beUe-sceur,  Mary  sighed,  as  she  climbed  the  dark 
stairs. 

She  did  not  summon  her  maid.  She  stood  before 
her  long  mirror,  examining  her  extraordinary  dis- 
hevelment.  She  gave  an  added  pull  of  confusion  to 
her  hair,  threw  back  her  hat  a  little,  smiled  with 
an  appropriate  abandonment.  Men  liked  that,  she 
shrugged,  tossing  her  hat  to  a  chair.  All  the  room 
was  speckless,  chastely  blue,  shining  with  straight- 


154  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

laid  silver  tools  of  the  toilet.  She  began  to  undress, 
disciplining  the  escaped  locks,  standing  erect  and  spare 
before  the  mirror,  which  reflected  her  fixed  comment 
of  scorn  on  the  ancient  art  of  allurement.  Doubtless 
she  was  reputed  ignorant  of  its  simple  procedures. 
At  thirty-one  her  label  was  probably  "  cultured,"  or 
sometimes  "  intellectual."  She  looked  younger  than 
she  was,  she  believed,  pausing  close  at  the  glass.  If 
so,  it  was  because  she  had  never  given  herself  anxiety 
about  any  man.  But  suppose,  my  dear  sir,  she  should 
choose  to  be  labeled,  for  your  foolish  capering. 

The  thought  sent  her  hunting  in  a  great  drawer. 
She  went  far  down  before  she  left  the  blacks,  the 
whites,  the  neutral  colors,  that  marked  the  years  of 
her  set  taste.  She  emerged  with  a  folly  in  crimson 
silk,  trimmed  with  green  and  gold  and  with  crystal 
buttons.  Her  waist  had  not  varied  since  this  folly 
had  begun  to  sink  toward  the  bottom  of  the  drawer. 
Meanwhile  the  fashion  had  returned,  as  nearly  as  any 
man  would  discern.  She  put  on  the  skirt.  Then  she 
unbraided  her  hair  and  began  an  experiment  which 
was  not  to  her  satisfaction.  She  stopped  and  hunted 
in  an  album.  It  was  late,  but  she  would  sleep  late. 
She  found  the  photograph  that  showed  the  soft  fall 
of  the  hair  over  a  temple,  rounding  her  face  above  this 
same  crimson  affair — it  all  came  back  through  the 
ten  years.  She  smiled  engagingly  to  the  face  in  the 
glass;  she  curled  her  narrow  lips  and  widened  her 
eyes,  disclosing  to  you,  for  an  instant  so  short  as  to 


TWO   HOME-GOINGS  155 

be  tinged  with  uncertainty,  that  there  is  more  in  this 
world  than  a  maiden  may  let  escape  to  any  one — except 
for  one  delectable  moment  to  yourself.  Thus  she  went 
to  work  to  reproduce  that  coiffure  to  her  satisfaction. 
There  was  the  least  bit  less  hair  than  in  the  photo- 
graph ;  but,  behind  the  eyes,  there  was  a  new  mordancy 
of  comprehension. 


CHAPTER    XII 

A    CHOICE  OF  ALUES 

MONSIEUR,  arriving  at  Kendry's  rooms  and  greeting 
him  in  a  manner  and  in  an  appearance  so  transformed 
from  that  of  the  shambling  Chinese  coolie  with  the 
jade  dragon,  smiled  as  if  his  other  guises  had  been 
the  false  ones.  Kelly,  who  buttoned  from  view  his 
badge  of  a  Secret  Service  Agent,  must  recognize  Chan 
Kow,  Kendry  thought.  It  was  improbable  that  a  man 
ferreting  in  Chinatown  had  failed  to  take  note  of  a 
figure  so  commanding  and  evidently  so  notorious  as 
Chan  Kow.  But  Kendry  saw  no  sign  of  recognition 
in  Kelly;  nor  could  he  detect  in  Chan  Kow,  who 
seemed  to  know  every  one  whose  interests  might 
touch  upon  his  own,  more  than  a  polite  glance  at  Kelly. 
"  I  am  de  trop,  messieurs,"  Chan  Kow  hastened  in 
French.  "  I  interrupt  something  of  importance." 
Kendry  saw  Kelly  look  to  him  for  the  translation  of 
the  foreign  tongue.  Kendry,  in  his  anger  at  the  way 
successive  events  had  tossed  him  lightly  aside,  kept  his 
will  at  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  There  had  been  signifi- 
cance in  all  of  Chan  Kow's  visits;  now,  with  aroused 
suspicions,  Kendry  decided  that  the  significance  of  this 
one  should  not  escape  him.  Chan  Kow  had  maintained 

156 


A    CHOICE    OF    ALLIES  157 

an  obscurity  as  to  his  motives ;  with  him,  Kendry  more 
irritatedly  felt,  friendship  carried  no  clear  candor,  as 
with  a  white  man.  Now  he  came  with  a  borrowed 
name  and  a  false  exterior,  assuming  that  Kendry 
would  lend  himself  to  a  dissimulation  that  was  half 
shameful,  half  ludicrous. 

"  If  I  could  have  a  few  minutes  with  this  gentle- 
man !  "  Kendry  suggested  to  Kelly.  The  little  man 
of  the  great  ears  departed  with  a  wave  of  his  hand; 
he  would  wait  in  the  lobby.  Kendry  opened  his  side- 
board, preparing  to  fortify  Chan  Kow's  good  humor. 

"  Your  friend  who  has  just  left — Monsieur  the  Bat 
— you  know  who  he  is  ?  "  the  old  man  settled  himself. 

"  I  do,"  Kendry  had  satisfaction  in  saying. 

"  Therefore  avoid  him,"  Chan  Kow  nodded.  "  He 
knows  who  I  am  but " — Chan  Kow  opened  his  palms 
— "  it  is  no  matter.  He  is  not  considerable.  Merely 
ignore  him." 

"  It  is  you  that  I  am  uncertain  about,"  Kendry 
firmly  eyed  him.  "  If  there's  anything  in  my  inher- 
ited friendship  with  you — and  once  or  twice  I've  been 
as  confidential  with  you  as  if  you  were  my  own 
father — then  it's  time  for  you  to  '  loosen  up ! '  I 
don't  like  the  way  you  have  treated  the  matter  of  Mr. 
Paulter.  I  don't  feel  that  you  are  playing  open  with 
me,  sir.  Why  did  you  inveigle  me  into  that  theater, 
with  ladies,  to  see  that  brutal  murder  ?  From  what  I 
know  of  Chinatown,  I  believe  you  knew  that  that 
murder  was  to  happen.  Now,  tell  me  your  motives !  " 


158  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

Chan  Kow  beamed  across  the  rim  of  his  glass.  He 
blew  a  great  cloud  of  smoke  at  the  ceiling. 

"  My  dear  young  man,"  he  said,  "  one's  motives  are 
always  mixed ;  otherwise  honesty  would  be  the  part  of 
common  men  instead  of  requiring  genius  for  its  per- 
fection. The  only  time  I  can  remember  having  acted 
with  one  single  purpose  was  when  the  Viceroy  of 
Shang-Tung  sent  a  man  after  me  with  a  sharp  spear. 
I  was  not  then  so  corpulent;  but  the  man  with  the 
spear  was  an  excellent  runner,  and  unfortunately  he 
caught  up  with  me.  When  you  come  to  see  me  I  will 
show  you  the  head  of  his  spear.  I  was  not  then  a  col- 
lector of  curious  mementos  of  a  checkered  life,  or  pen: 
haps  I  should  have  kept  a  little  piece  of  the  man,  too." 

"  First  evasion  of  my  question,"  Kendry  said. 
"  Nothing  to  do  with  the  case."  Chan  Kow  blandly 
raised  his  glass  to  his  host. 

"  To-night,"  he  said,  "  one  of  my  objects  was  a 
natural  one.  It  was  that  you  should  witness  my  de- 
parture from  this  life."  Kendry  puzzled.  "  I  mean 
the  man  who  was  shot.  It  was  I." 

Kendry  stared  at  his  sleek  face ;  it  was  clean  shaven, 
save  for  a  day's  growth  begun  on  the  upper  lip.  '  You 
want  to  make  people  think  ?  "  Chan  Kow  nodded. 

"C'etait  moi,"  he  pleasurably  sighed,  his  head 
thrown  back.  "  To-morrow  you  will  see  my  obituary 
in  the  newspapers;  not  very  complimentary  to  a  poor 
foreigner.  But  I  shall  have  the  rest  done  properly. 
My  funeral  will  cost  four  thousand  dollars — very 


A    CHOICE    OF    ALLIES  159 

beautiful  burial  robes.  I  shall  have  them  dug  up  some 
night;  two  bands  of  music,  three  wagon-loads  of 
food,  sixty  carriages  to  the  cemetery,  a  hundred  hired 
mourners.  I  shall  regret  not  to  be  a  spectator.  C'etait 
moil " 

"  You  connived  at  the  death  of  this  poor  devil,  so 
that  people  would  think  it  was  you  who  were  shot?  " 
Kendry  rose. 

"  He  and  I  connived  it  together,  amicably,"  Chan 
Kow  nodded.  He  drummed  on  the  arm  of  his  chair 
with  fatherly  amusement  at  the  young  man's  revul- 
sion. The  act  was  an  affectation  of  the  occidental 
restlessness  of  body.  "  Sit  down/'  he  laughed.  "  You 
assist  at  the  birth  of  the  first  Celestial  man-of-thc- 
world,  mon  Dieul  I  emerge  from  the  chrysalis — 
'  Chan  Kow ' ;  Chinatown  buries  my  old  raiment  of 
silk  and  gold,  and  I  become  a  black  butterfly  in  broad- 
cloth— a  Parisian.  Je  boulevarderai  toute  ma  vie! 
And  I  am  happy!  When  one  is  happy  one  does  not 
evade  the  questions  of  a  friend;  one  talks,  rather, 
with  as  little  reservation  as  may  be.  But  there  is 
always  some  reservation.  For  example,"  he  held  up  a 
little  finger  from  which  the  growth  of  years  had  been 
sacrificed,  "  you  would  not  choose  to  tell  me  in  what 
direction  you  went  after  you  left  the  Chinese  Theater 
to-night?" 

"  Toward  Telegraph  Hill,"  said  Kendry  promptly. 
He  was  willing  to  give  pattern  to  Chan  Kow,  even  at 
some  cost. 


160  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

"  A  la  bonne  heure! "  the  old  man  bowed.  "  And 
I  will  not  ask  you  why;  because  you  do  not  know." 

"  Which  again  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  case — 
not  even  with  the  trifle  of  your  implication  in  a  mur- 
der/' Kendry  grimly  said.  "  If  you  want  to  be  a 
complete  Caucasian  you  must  not  only  be  more  direct, 
but  you  must  stop  holding  your  cigar  between  your 
thumb  and  forefinger  with  your  palm  up." 

"  Diable! "  Chan  Kow  made  haste  to  change  his 
mode.  "  I  have  not  switched  you  off  the  track,"  he 
said ;  "  the  train  merely  has  stopped.  As  to  my  con- 
niving at  this  death  to-night,  that  was  purely  an  affair 
betwreen  the  corpse  and  myself.  It  was  an  arrange- 
ment something  like  that  between  God  and  man, 
though  more  satisfactory  than  one  is  able  to  make 
with  the  Creator.  The  man  was  to  die  without  warn- 
ing, at  my  will;  but  observe,  he  was,  meanwhile,  to 
enjoy  both  freedom  from  want  and  protection  from 
his  enemies.  Oh,  yes,"  the  old  man  nodded,  "  he 
leaves  a  good  little  wife  and  two  sons — that  was  in- 
cluded. His  soul  will  travel  as  in  a  Pullman  car." 

"  A  man  made  such  an  agreement  with  you,  and  not 
under  compunction?"  Kendry  accepted  the  discur- 
sion,  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  No.  But  the  generosity  was  mine,  not  his. 
Many  years  ago  I  awoke  and  found  him  tightening  a 
cord  around  my  neck.  I  kept  him  three  days  in  my 
room,  most  of  the  time  suspended  by  the  chin,  his 
big  toes  brushing  the  floor.  He  grew  confidential. 


A    CHOICE    OF    ALLIES  161 

It  was  because  we  looked  so  much  alike  that  he  had 
wanted  to  kill  me.  He  said  that  every  man  was  en- 
titled to  a  face  of  his  own;  that  the  mistake  made  in 
heaven,  of  giving  us  both  the  same  face,  must  be 
rectified  upon  earth  or  it  would  cause  endless  trouble 
in  hell.  We  are,  you  see,  quite  human  in  China.  You 
yourself  would  not  mourn  at  the  bier  of  a  man  who 
was  your  counterpart.  Bien,  we  compromised;  we 
made  use  of  each  other.  It  was  just,  though  the  beg- 
gar had  no  intellect,  which  to  a  capable  eye  made 
every  difference  in  our  physiognomies.  But  I  always 
felt  that  some  day  I  should  need  to  bury  a  person- 
ality from  which  I  had  extracted  its  highest  possi- 
bilities. Void!  I  drift  away  in  the  smoke  of  a 
pistol." 

"To  Paris — permanently?"  said  Kendry.  He 
wondered  what  questionable  issues  lay  behind  this 
strange  departure. 

Chan  Kow  raised  his  penciled  eyebrows. 

"  France  some  day,"  he  said.  "  There  is  no  haste. 
I  shall  come  across  you  at  the  opera.  You  will  have 
a  beautiful  young  wife  on  your  arm — what  a  joy  to 
be  the  first  to  show  her  all  these  grandeurs !  We  shall 
compare  the  music  with  that  pig-sticking  cacophony 
of  to-night.  We  shall  smile  and  rejoice ;  and  we  shall 
understand  why  you  turned  north  this  evening."  Ken- 
dry  answered  him  dryly. 

"  And  now  I  fully  understand  that  you  decline  to 
meet  my  doubts  as  to  your  sincerity,"  he  said.  "  You 


162  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

keep  off  the  points  like  a  sword  dancer."  There  was 
good-natured  deprecation  in  Chan  Kow's  tapping  on 
his  glass. 

"  The  '  points  '  ?  "  he  echoed.  He  looked  about  at 
the  doors,  then  lowered  his  voice.  "  Before  I  died 
this  evening  I  am  reported  to  have  cried  out :  *  Suey 
Lee — bad  man ! '  I  fancy  I  betray  no  one  when  I  say 
that  obviously  Suey  Lee  was  the  female  impersonator 
— the  man  who  fired  the  shot  in  the  darkness.  One 
has  many  friends,"  he  finished  solemnly,  "  one  wishes 
to  allow  each  his  own  notion  of  morality,  and  to  be- 
tray no  one."  Kendry  was  not  impressed. 

"  Neither  the  police  nor  any  one  else  will  ever  pro- 
duce a  murderer  in  Chinatown.  Still,  if  you  betray 
no  one,  why  betray  the  man  who " 

"  Who  thought  he  was  shooting  me  ?  "  the  old  man 
smiled.  "  That  was  not  the  act  of  a  friend." 

"  Very  well ! "  Kendry  slapped  the  table.  "  What 
good  does  the  whole  foul  business  do  me?  " 

"  The  same  question  I  asked  you  long  ago ! "  the 
old  man  leaned  forward  with  kindly  eyes.  "  To 
rouse  the  jealousy  of  a  Paulter  whom  you  do  not 
hate,  to  rouse  the  interest  .of  wonderful  blue  eyes 
you  do  not  love — to  what  good?  You  merely  have 
caused  her  to  keep  thinking :  '  I  am  beautiful,  and  / 
have  no  lady's  maid,  no  Paris  gown ! ' ' 

"My  dear  sir,  Miss  Marr  can  triumph  without 
them,"  Kendry  announced. 

"  O,  yes  ?  "  said  Chan  Kow.     "  Let  her  come  into  a 


A    CHOICE    OF   ALLIES  163 

little  money,  where  shall  you  find  her?  I  will  find 
her  for  you  at  a  dressmaker's  or  a  milliner's,  planning 
to  mitigate  the  wrong  that  was  put  on  her  when  the 
devil  invented  clothes.  Ah,  my  boy,"  Chan  Kow  rose 
to  go,  "  if  a  man  could  be  at  once  young  and  wise, 
life  would  not  be  worth  living.  But  the  Fates  are 
kind;  I  have  seen  the  lady  sparrow  dangle  the  wrong 
suitor  by  the  top-knot,  from  a  bough.  When  you 
have  suffered  that  once,  flit  elsewhere — take  it  from 
an  old  man's  heart."  Kendry  grimly  smiled. 

"  I  think  I  shall  not  take  any  of  your  advice,"  he 
said.  "  If  I  haven't  discovered  it  sooner,  it's  my 
fault;  you're  a  cuttle-fish!"  Chan  Kow  slapped  his 
gloves  on  the  brim  of  his  hat. 

"  The  world  is  not  so  simple  as  a  proposition  in 
geometry,"  he  said,  with  dignity.  "  A  cuttle-fish  may 
darken  the  waters  to  protect  a  friend.  Come  to  me 
to-morrow  evening."  He  offered  his  hand;  it  was 
as  if  he  had  spent  many  hours  watching  the  French 
drama.  "Meanwhile,  reflect — reflect!  And,"  he 
waved  his  hat,  "remember  that  a  bat  is  a  rat  with 
wings ! " 

This,  Kendry  decided,  was  the  message  so  casually 
tossed  off  at  parting,  that  had  informed  Chan  Kow's 
visit.  He  did  not  wish  Kendry  to  join  with  the  Secret 
Service  Agent  in  pursuing  the  counterfeiters.  But  he 
was  not  to  have  his  way,  Kendry  rejoiced.  Kelly, 
returning,  appeared  to  hunt  for  some  flavor  of  the 
interview  he  had  missed. 


164  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

"  You've  changed  your  mind  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I'm  ready  to  go  at  once,"  said  Kendry.  The  man 
with  the  ears  glanced  at  him  furtively. 

"  How  much  do  you  know  about  Paulter  ?  "  he  said, 
after  a  pause. 

"  From  a  criminal  prosecutor's  point  of  view  ? 
Nothing,"  Kendry  said.  "  I  have  only  my  suspi- 
cions." Kelly's  ruminative  pauses  began  to  irritate 
him. 

"  Needn't  be  afraid  to  tell  me,"  Kelly  said. 

"  I'm  not  afraid  to  tell  any  one !  "  Kendry  brought 
him  up.  "I  think  he's  a  crook.  He  has  threatened 
to  shoot  me.  He's  a  moral  bankrupt  and  ought  to  be 
in  the  hands  of  a  receiver.  What  do  you  know  ?  " 
Kelly's  small  eyes  kept  reverting  to  Kendry  from  under 
shaggy  brows. 

"  What  steps  were  you  going  to  take  to-morrow  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  Come,  let's  be  on  or  off  with  it ! "  Kendry  wheeled 
in  his  chair.  "  You've  answered  my  question  with 
another!" 

Something  caused  Kelly  to  become  acquiescent. 
His  rubbing  one  ear  as  if  to  urge  it  less  obtrusively 
back  might  have  partaken  of  nervousness. 

"  Well,  I'm  shy  of  legal  proof,  myself,  to  date,"  he 
laughed.  "  What  worries  me  is  the  police,"  he  ad- 
mitted, not  without  watching  Kendry's  expression. 
"  You  know  how  rotten  they  are." 

"  I  couldn't  prove  it,"  said  Kendry.     "  I  only  know 


A    CHOICE    OF    ALLIES  165 

how  rotten  they  are  said  to  be  by  people  who  them- 
selves are  a  trifle  decayed." 

"  Well,  they'll  stand  in  with  Paulter  against  you  and 
me,"  Kelly  pronounced.  "  Have  you  piped  him  off  to 
the  police,  yet?  All  right,  then.  The  Federal  gov- 
ernment wants  to  pull  this  thing  off  before  the  police 
get  wind  of  it  and  warn  him;  and  it  would  like  to 
have  witnesses  of  too  much  standing  for  the  police  to 
browbeat  when  it  comes  to  an  arrest.  And  I  want 
to  put  this  thing  through  without  any  Federal  help,  to 
score  for  myself,  with  my  chief.  There's  all  my  cards, 
Mr.  Kendry,  and  you  can  throw  me  down  if  you've  a 
mind  to.  I'm  at  your  mercy,"  he  laughed.  "  If  you 
even  mention  my  name  to  the  police,  the  whole  busi- 
ness is  spoiled." 

He  went  away  seeming  grateful  for  Kendry's 
promise  of  secrecy.  Eastwood,  under  the  same  ban, 
was  to  be  secured  if  possible  to  make  one  of  the  party 
which  was  to  carry  out  its  raid  on  the  following 
evening,  at  a  time  to  be  arranged  by  telephone.  Ken- 
dry  was  to  be  allowed  to  enter  first  that  underground 
stronghold  where  Kelly  gave  him  to  understand  they 
should  find  those  machines  and  other  evidences  of 
illicit  coining  that  would  complete  the  chain  to  be 
fastened  on  Paulter.  It  was  not  a  wholly  agreeable 
business,  and  Kelly  was  a  man  for  whom  Kendry 
could  find  no  sympathy.  But  it  met  Kendry's  view 
as  to  the  right  policy  of  a  citizen  in  a  republic;  to  be 
ever  at  service  for  the  active  enforcement  of  the  law. 


166  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

It  seemed  to  promise  a  clearing  of  the  way  for  the 
idea.  With  Paulter  in  the  toils  the  house  on  the  hill 
would  present  to  Kendry  the  one  hostility  of  Mrs. 
Marr.  This  he  believed  he  could  rapidly  dissolve. 
He  telephoned  to  Eastwood.  The  prospect  of  an  en- 
counter with  the  man  who  had  turned  Eastwood  away 
from  Miss  Marr's,  put  him  at  once  in  excellent  humor 
when  it  was  coupled  with  Kendry' s  solicitous  inquiry 
for  Mary.  She  had  said  from  behind  a  closed  door 
that  she  was  retiring  in  excellent  spirits;  which,  if  it 
probably  contained  irony,  satisfied  Kendry  that  she 
was  unharmed. 

He  sat  with  compressed  lips,  revolving  the  situation 
in  the  silence  of  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  There 
was  now  a  chance  for  action  unimpeded  by  the  ques- 
tions of  a  lively  conscience.  Doubtless  he  had  already 
missed  other  chances  for  action,  and  action  was  what 
counted.  He  had  a  growing  faculty  for  seeing  him- 
self as  the  world  might  see  him.  Up  to  the  present, 
on  the  stage  where  his  own  romance  was  being  enacted, 
he  felt  about  himself  as  the  world,  witnessing  the 
spectacle,  would  have  felt.  The  world  would  sub- 
scribe to  his  sentiments,  his  theories,  his  hopes;  but 
its  admiration,  thinly  disguised,  would  have  gone  to 
the  other  figures  who  crowded  him;  Paulter,  carrying 
out  his  plans  by  brute  force  and  instinct ;  Chan  Kow, 
steadily  molding  events  with  a  practiced  if  unscrupu- 
lous hand.  If  Kendry  had  ranted  and  begun  to  strut 
a  little  in  his  interviews  with  the  Chinese  and  with 


A    CHOICE    OF    ALLIES  167 

Kelly,  it  was  because  he  wished  to  enforce  himself  as 
the  hero  of  his  own  romance.  He  himself  was  becom- 
ing impatient  at  the  inaction,  the  long  speeches,  of 
himself,  the  ingenuous,  if  right-minded,  lover.  As 
the  curtain  rolled  down  on  the  act  he  felt  that  he 
had  spoken  some  lines  more  suggestive  of  the  crisp 
action  he  could  forsee  for  himself,  in  a  drama  where 
the  idea  must  and  should  triumph  through  his  own 
endeavors. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

TWO   KINDS   OF   WEATHER 

HE  went  to  Mary's  prepared  with  an  especial  quality 
of  indulgence  for  her.  She  would  have  suffered  a 
nervous  shock,  she  would  be  fatigued,  she  would  be 
difficult.  There  would  be  some,  color  laid  on  the  pre- 
vious night's  adventure  by  her  brother,  a  jealous  ex- 
planation of  Kendry's  seeking  Telegraph  Hill,  which 
must  be  removed.  Miss  Marr  was  linked  with  the 
idea ;  Mary  was  linked  with  his  heart.  Kendry's  mild 
statement  should  recall  the  facts  to  Mary.  She  would 
be  ironical,  lightly  disdainful,  ungraciously  aloof. 
There  his  patient  indulgence  would  meet  her — gentle- 
ness at  which  she  could  charge  and  bring  up  softly.  If 
he  came  laden  with  so  much  sweetness  it  was  perhaps 
natural  that  he  himself  should  nibble  some  of  it.  He 
might  have  made  faster  headway  with  Mary  East- 
wood had  he  chosen  to  disburden  himself  of  every- 
thing she  did  not  intensely  applaud — notably  of  the 
idea.  It  would  have  lightened  his  character,  though; 
and  for  that  he  described  himself  as  too  austerely  vir- 
tuous; on  which  phrase  he  chewed,  dangerously  out 
of  his  habit  of  modesty,  while  for  a  little  proof  of 
eagerness  he  waited  for  Mary  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

168 


TWO    KINDS    OF    WEATHER  169 

A  radiant,  directly  gazing  creature  tripped  down  to 
him  in  crimson  silk,  with  her  hair  coquettishly  over  a 
temple.  No  less  startling  was  the  full  pressure  of  her 
fingers. 

"  Magnificent !  "      He  stood  off. 

"Fve  turned  over  a  new  leaf,  you  think?"  she 
laughed.  "  Don't  let  me  talk  of  myself  when  you  look 
so  pale."  She  stopped.  "  I  think  a  cup  of  coffee — 
in  that  big  chair,  with  your  feet  at  the  greatest  allow- 
able angle !  "  she  made  fine  inspiration.  He  was  not 
aware  of  looking  pale;  but  he  did  not  protest.  She 
led  the  way ;  she  had  never  before  glanced  back  at  him 
over  her  shoulder,  leading  thus.  It  did  not  increase 
his  alleged  pallor.  "I  must  know  at  once  how  you 
got  home  last  night,"  he  said.  "  You'll  have  thought 
me " 

"  Oh,  I  came  in  a  carriage,"  she  airily  interrupted, 
as  if  there  was  more  to  say. 

"  Alone  ?  "    She  raised  her  brows. 

"  If  you  were  with  me  I  didn't  discover  it.  I  was 
amused  though.  You  didn't  hear  how  I  got  away?" 

"  Nothing.  I  went  in  the  direction  I  supposed 
Henry  would  take  you.  Chance  was  miserably 
against  me !  " 

"Wasn't  it,  last  night?"  Mary  sang,  he  thought, 
comfortingly. 

"Then  you  quite  understand?"  He  willingly 
avoided  details. 

"  Thoroughly !  "  she  held  it  up,  her  eyes  straight  at 


170  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

him.  She  lighted  the  lamp  under  the  coffee  machine. 
He  took  a  careful  breath.  Her  mood  was  precious. 

'  Your  work,"  he  safely  chose,  "  you  are  keeping 
at  it  steadily?" 

"  Jack,  I'm  pondering  whether  to  chuck  it !  "  she 
came  out.  His  expression  showed  her  no  regret.  "  I 
don't  think,"  she  mused,  "  I'm  not  sure  that  it's  enough 
to  fill  my  life." 

"  I  have  never  thought  it  was,"  he  murmured. 

"I  couldn't  keep  on  very  long,"  she  seemed  to 
think  aloud,  the  coffee  measure  poised  in  the  hand 
that  had  so  pressed  his,  "  without  confronting  the 
question  whether  I  ever  could  accomplish  anything 
worth  while — anything  equal  to  that."  She  pointed 
at  the  Donatello  boy,  and  her  glance  went  for  an  in- 
stant to  Kendry.  Her  fingers  were  more  bejewelled 
than  he  had  seen  them  before.  "  I  should  have  to  de- 
cide whether — whether,"  she  toyed,  "  a  woman  can  be 
a  sculptor  and — a  woman,  too !  "  The  yielding  qual- 
ity of  her  sigh  intoxicated  him. 

"  Surely,  for  you,  the  womanly  powers  are  so  great 
that  they  must  fix  the  choice,"  he  softly  went  at  her. 
Mary  raised  her  eyelids  wide,  then  drooped  them, 
watching  the  alcohol  flame.  The  movement  strangely 
carried  him  for  an  instant  back  to  an  afternoon  on  a 
mountain  side.  "  You'd  come  to  find  the  woman's 
natural  resources  filling  your  life  to  the  brim,"  he  de- 
clared. 

"  Ah,  but  a  man  always  imagines  them  hitched  to 


TWO   KINDS    OF    WEATHER  171 

some  masculine  *  idea ! '  Mary  archly  addressed  the 
rug. 

"  No ;  hitched  to  the  man  who  has  the  idea/'  Ken- 
dry  said.  "  If  you  gave  yourself  to  it  graciously,  just 
for  experiment,  you  might  come  to  think  better  of  my 
idea.  You  think  I've  grown  dull  and  lost  some  of  my 
sense  of  the  humorous;  but  with  half  a  chance,  I'll 
prove  the  worth  of  my  idea  to  you." 

Surely  a  fine  candor  rose  with  her  eyes  from  regard- 
ing their  reflection  in  the  coffee  machine.  "  You  are 
flattering  to  take  me  so  much  into  your  confidence," 
she  said.  "  Of  course  I  can't  help  feeling,  from  my 
detached  point  of  view,  that  your  idea  has  been  lead- 
ing you  into  places  where,  for  me,"  she  seemed  to  re- 
cede from  him,  "  it  would  be  unpleasant  to  go.  That 
theater,  that  murder,  that  Mr.  Paulter — the  whole  un- 
pleasant mixing  with  people  one  couldn't  bear  to  have 
claim  one's  acquaintance.  Though  one  may  hope, 
now  that  your  adventure  with  Miss  Marr  is  quite  fin- 
ished," she  said  without  a  flutter,  "  you'll  rise  to 
higher  planes." 

It  seemed  unwise  at  that  moment  to  suggest  that 
his  efforts  in  Miss  Marr's  behalf  were  not  ended. 

"  I  should  be  the  last  to  protest  against  your  deli- 
cate sense  of  proportion,"  Kendry  said,  "  though  of 
course  you'd  always  join  me  in  distinguishing  Miss 
Marr  from  her  present  surroundings."  Her  mouth 
set  a  little  queerly.  "  One  could  hardly  avoid  higher 
planes  who  so  persistently  pursued  your  own  footsteps 


172  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

as  I  do,"  he  hastened.  "You  hadn't  thought  of 
that!" 

"I  hadn't  taken  it  so  for  granted,"  she  said,  over 
her  shoulder.  Her  thin  mouth  still  was  set.  She  held 
his  cup  under  the  faucet. 

"  When  it  has  become  so  evidently  my  habit  ? " 
Kendry  leaned  to  her,  with  lowered  voice.  "  When 
it's  the  set  of  my  jaw,  for  all  time?  You  are  over- 
pouring  my  cup !  "  She  compressed  a  smile,  her  back 
to  him. 

"  You  are  enough  to  make  one  overpour,"  she  said, 
with  what  he  thought  a  tremor.  The  quick  spread  of 
her  color  brought  him  to  his  feet  at  her  side. 

"  Do  overpour,  for  once,"  he  said.  He  put  down 
the  cup  she  thrust  at  him  as  if  defensively.  "  Be  sweet 
and  human.  Give  me  your  hand,  to  keep,  Mary." 

She  snatched  the  hand  away  from  him.  She  was 
on  the  other  side  of  the  room  before  he  realized  her 
mood. 

"  Won't  you  ?  "  he  persisted,  with  foolish  helpless- 
ness. There  was  a  glitter  in  the  eyes  above  her  tight 
lips. 

"  You  make  me  ill — most  ill !  "  she  delivered.  Her 
short  laugh  echoed  through  the  rooms.  Her  cheek 
was  cool  again.  She  stood  fixed  on  the  coffee  ma- 
chine, as  if  waiting  for  him  to  let  her  return  to  it. 
He  hung  suspended  in  the  vacuum  of  rejection. 

Her  thrust  had  gone  through  his  fine  indulgence 
and  had  sunk  coldly  into  his  pride.  He  was  sickened 


TWO    KINDS    OF    WEATHER  173 

by  an  anger  he  could  not  justify.  At  best  he  could 
not  but  let  his  deadened  silence  speak  for  him. 

"  Your  coffee  is  getting  chilled,"  she  had  to  say, 
without  tone.  Kendry  looked  to  the  door. 

"A  donkey  doesn't  drink  coffee,"  he  said.  "It's 
rude  of  me,  after  you've  taken  so  much  trouble ;  but  I 
think  I  had  better  be  kicking  my  heels  in  some  wider 
space.  You  really  must  forgive  me." 

"  I  merely  thought  you  were  looking  tired,"  she 
said.  "  If  you  insist  that  a  walk  will  do  you  more 
good " 

He  heard  himself  utering  commonplaces.  She 
went  to  the  door  with  him  and  waited  while  he 
descended  the  steps  and  gave  his  sickly  smile  of  adieu. 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  how  you  came  out  with  Miss 
Marr  last  night,"  she  said,  to  his  raised  hat. 

"  You  thought  I  went  home  with  her  ?  "  Kendry 
stopped.  Mary's  eyes  enlarged. 

"  Oh— you  didn't?  "  she  said.  He  shook  his  head. 
She  seemed  about  to  say  something.  "  Oh !  "  she  re- 
peated. 

The  crimson  silk  sat  trimly  on  her  straight  figure. 
The  lock  that  had  softened  her  temple  had  fallen  into 
a  flatter  line. 

While  he  walked  aimlessly  down  the  hill  the  wound 
kept  pulsing,  living  over  the  scene.  He  had  been 
"  dangled  by  the  top-knot "  in  Chan  Kow's  hideous 
phrase.  He  groped  for  moral  footing.  It  was  his 
dignity  that  had  been  affronted,  he  decided;  and  the 


174  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

fault  had  been  in  his  own  want  of  restraint.  There 
was  this  and  that  which  he  might  have  said,  with 
humbling  effect  on  her ;  but  never  mind — what  was  he 
to  do?  It  came  back  to  the  question  whether  Mary 
Eastwood  really  did  love  him.  He  concluded  that  she 
was  on  the  verge  of  doing  so.  So  to  conclude  was  the 
symptom  of  his  taste. 

Very  well,  he  would  not  go  to  her  house  again  be- 
fore he  had  some  word  from  her.  He  began  to  cal- 
culate how  long  it  would  be  before  she  would  write. 
Then  he  began  to  be  distressed  at  the  thought  that, 
of  course,  she  might  never  suffer  herself  to  write.  He 
forgot  to  continue  to  look  upon  himself  as  a  donkey. 
He  was  young;  he  began  to  pity  himself  a  trifle  and 
to  revolve  plans.  Even  if  she  did  not  write  it  would 
not  be  absolute  proof  that  she  did  not,  or  at  some  time 
had  not,  loved  him.  For  a  man  truly  in  love  there 
is  no  such  proof. 

He  had  turned  into  a  street  that  inclined  moderately 
from  the  skyline  to  the  region  of  the  better  shops. 
From  one  of  these  Ethel  Marr  issued.  It  was  the  same 
straw  hat,  the  same  blue  serge,  the  same  smooth  car- 
riage. Had  she  taken  employment  at  a  ladies'  tailor's  ? 
She  was  inspecting  the  display  of  a  jeweler  when  he 
caught  her  up.  There  were  some  costly  rings  in  the 
window.  He  remembered  that  he  had  seen  no  rings 
on  her  ringers ;  now  he  saw  no  sign  of  one  beneath  her 
gloves.  The  same  flush  saluted  him  in  the  interval 
while  her  lashes  rose  before  she  spoke.  He  likened 


TWO    KINDS    OF    WEATHER  175 

her,  in  that  agreeable  little  period  for  inspection,  to  a 
clear  lake,  perhaps  rock-bound,  but  without  one  hid- 
den reef,  where  cool  spring  and  warm  soft  sunshine 
always  were.  Howsoever  clumsily  his  heart  might 
seek  a  chord  with  Mary's,  his  mind,  he  told  himself, 
made  no  error  in  appraising  Ethel  Marr. 

"  You  reached  home  safely  with  Miss  Eastwood?  " 
she  said.  At  his  reply  she  marveled.  "  She  tele- 
phoned ;  she  asked  how  I  got  home.  She  didn't  speak 
of  having  missed  you!  You  telephoned,  too.  I  was 
weak;  I  wanted  to  escape  a  scene;  so  I  didn't  ring 
you  up  to  correct  what  Mr.  Paulter  said.  I  relied  on 
your  knowledge  of  him." 

"  And  on  my  understanding  of  you,  I  hope,"  Ken- 
dry  said.  "  I  have  a  restful  faith  in  your  evenness 
of  temper.  I  suppose  it's  a  quality  of  your  perfect 
health.  My  father  used  to  say  that  health  was  the 
first  virtue  in  a  living  being."  They  were  returning 
on  her  steps,  past  the  ladies'  tailor.  "  Shall  I  guess 
that  you  are  going  to  take  employment  here  ?  "  he 
said. 

"  Better,"  the  girl  smiled.  "  They  are  to  make  me 
some  new  clothes.  I  have  received  some  unexpected 
money — an  old  debt  to  my  father,  they  tell  me.  Then, 
the  stolen  bonds  have  come  back,  in  an  express  pack- 
age, with  nothing  to  show  from  where.  It  happened 
but  this  morning."  She  glanced  for  his  comment  on 
her  haste  to  the  tailor's.  "  The  writing  on  the  pack- 
age is  like  the  writing  in  the  letter  with  the  money, 


176  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

and  neither  had  a  signature.  The  check  was  certified 
on  a  Hong  Kong  bank.  The  paper  smelt  of  sandal- 
wood.  It's  mysterious." 

Kendry  thought  of  Chan  Kow ;  but  he  was  more  oc- 
cupied with  his  satisfaction  at  seeing  her  saved  from 
drudgery.  He  bowed  to  some  ladies  whose  curiosity 
could  not  place  Miss  Marr.  When  his  eyes  were  not 
enjoying  herself  she  stole  contemplative  glances  at 
him. 

"  And  then  what's  the  next  step  toward  fortifying 
your  peace?"  he  mused.  "I  shall  dwell  on  that. 
How  about  a  change  of  scene?  How  about  some 
choice  employment  that  will  strengthen  your  inde- 
pendence ?  " 

"  Of  my  mother,  and  of  Mr.  Paulter  ?  "  she  was 
skeptical. 

"  A  background  to  fly  to  if  the  baleful  quantities 
force  you  to  the  limit.  That  must  be  the  prime  con- 
sideration !  I  know  what  a  girl  must  have,  for  that ; 
first " 

"  Clothes ! "  she  laughed.  She  was  gayer  than  he 
had  seen  her.  It  was  a  breeze  over  the  surface  of 
the  lake,  stirring  it  to  greater  life,  but  making  the 
depths  less  visible. 

"  And  courage.  You'll  have  both,  now.  But  next, 
you  must  have  women  friends — enthusiastic  ones — 
supporting  ones.  Heavens,  I  wish  my  sister  were 
here!  I  wish  you,  too,  were  my  sister!  "  he  still  more 
spontaneously  uttered. 


TWO    KINDS    OF    WEATHER  177 

"  That's  a  flattery  I  can  accept,"  the  girl  voiced. 
"  It's  ingenuous  of  you !  " 

He  frowned  with  eagerness,  inadvertently  quicken- 
ing his  step. 

"  We  must  invent  something  to  put  you  in  your 
right  setting,"  he  pronounced.  "  You  must  gener- 
ously recognize  how  useless,  how  footling  I  shall  feel 
myself  if  you  don't  let  my  fat  horses  hitch  on  to  pull 
your  chariot  out  of  the  slough.  I'm  aware  of  the 
difficulties,  the  conventions — all  that.  I'll  give  'em 
all  their  due,  I'll  be  as  docile  as  an  ox.  But  the 
inspiration  is  too  fine ;  if  there's  no  other  way  out  we 
must  build  one  in  defiance.  We  must  talk  this  over 
a  great  deal,"  he  turned  to  her.  If  there  was  any 
amendment  she  would  have  wished  to  make  to  this 
it  was  held  behind  the  friendly  tolerance  of  her  eyes. 

"  I  fear  we  shall  not  have  time,"  she  said.  She 
stopped  at  a  curb.  "  That's  my  homeward  car."  She 
shook  her  head  at  what  she  saw  him  about  to  pro- 
pose. It  brought  up  again  the  spectre  of  Paulter. 
The  car  relentlessly  approached. 

"  You  are  frequently  on  the  mountain  ?  "  he  hastily 
sought. 

"  Occasionally,"  she  nodded,  without  according  it 
relevance. 

"  You'll  be  looking  off  from  that  same  spot  where 
the  red  and  green  stones  are,  at  that  same  hour,  three 
days  from  now !  "  Kendry  mightily  willed  her.  Her 
hand  was  on  the  rail.  "  Isn't  it  so  ? "  Her  eyes 


178  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

widened;  the  mouth  drew  up  a  little,  but  without 
acquiescence.  The  passengers  gave  her  the  inter- 
ested inspection  she  was  accustomed  to. 

"  I  bade  you  good-by  last  night,"  she  said.  She 
swung  on,  in  answer  to  the  impatient  jerk  of  the  bell. 
He  was  deaf  to  the  diversion. 

"  Think  it  over  till  you  get  to  the  top  of  the  hill 
and  then  nod  '  yes  '  to  me !  "  Kendry  prayed. 

Her  car  rattled  across  the  intersecting  rails  and  he 
watched  it  up  the  steep  incline.  From  the  top  she 
saw  him  lift  his  hat  again.  She  bowed.  There  was 
a  small  flourish  of  the  hat  before  it  returned  to  his 
head.  He  resumed  his  way  with  a  lighter  step. 

He  was  scornful,  entering  his  club.  It  was  a  place 
to  dine  and  to  talk  trivially  with  old  bachelors.  The 
mountain,  with  Miss  Marr,  was  a  place  to  recuperate 
the  idea  and  to  become  acquainted  with  the  human 
soul.  He  sat  down  alone  to  his  dinner — an  evenly 
featured  young  man  with  a  well  modeled  head  and  an 
increasing  firmness  of  mouth.  His  back  was  straight 
and  his  eyes  were  full  of  the  passage  of  thought.  At 
that  moment  Mary  Eastwood  was  writing  him  a  note. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

TWO 


DINNER  helped  to  neutralize  his  hurt.  He  was,  as  it 
were,  lame  and  dumb,  but  alive  and  looking  about  him. 
There  was  Mary's  disdain  and  Paulter's  hatred.  The 
night's  adventure  surely  would  put  something  like 
finality  on  the  matter  of  Paulter.  With  regard  to 
Mary,  Kendry's  holding  the  feminine  mould  for  the 
more  deeply,  delicately  susceptible  now  enabled  the 
sprouting  of  a  theory  that  her  sharpness  toward  him 
had  been  the  sharpness  of  a  pain  which  he  stupidly, 
masculinely  had  visited  upon  her.  There  was  this 
thought  and  there  was  the  prospect  of  an  uninter- 
rupted communion  on  the  mountain  side  with  a  young 
woman  at  whom  merely  to  gaze  was  a  balm  and  a 
delight.  He  returned  late  to  find  Eastwood,  with  no 
trace  of  last  night's  brusqueness,  waiting  in  the  lobby 
of  the  hotel. 

"  A  little  early,"  Eastwood  lounged  in  Kendry's 
library,  close  to  a  bottle,  "  because  I've  been  having  a 
talk  about  you  with  Mary.  What's  this  symptom  she 
calls  your  '  idea?  '  '  he  grinned.  "  It  seems  to  have 
impressed  Miss  Marr."  Kendry  looked  at  East- 

179 


180  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

wood's  double  chin,  his  untroubled  mouth,  the  heavy 
diamond  on  the  finger  embracing  the  whiskey  glass. 

"  It's  the  idea  of  something  ultimate  to  live  for  after 
eating  and  drinking  and  building  a  sky-scraper;  an 
idea  of  the  thing  most  worth  while,"  Kendry  said. 
Eastwood  sat  up. 

"  A  stained-glass  paradise  ?  "  he  said.  "  Mab  will 
never  stand  it,  old  chap ! " 

"  Not  even  the  kind  of  stained  glass  you  are  hold- 
ing in  your  fat  fist,"  Kendry  allowed  himself.  "  It's 
no  more  religion  than  money  is  religion  to  people  at 
the  money  stage." 

"  Well,  how  do  you  bet  on  it?  What  are  the 
hurdles?" 

"  I  couldn't  make  it  seem  sane  to  you,  old  man," 
Kendry  said.  "  It  has  to  be  distilled  out  of  the  top 
of  a  tall  tree ;  it's  the  sixth  sense  of  direction ;  it's  the 
explanation  and  satisfaction  of  love,  marriage,  parent- 
hood, citizenship — everything  but  death.  Do  you 
want  some  more  ?  I  can  keep  this  up  all  night ! " 
Eastwood  spoke  across  his  glass. 

"  What  diet  goes  with  this  ? "  he  quizzed. 

"The  same  old  apple  on  a  fish-pole  tied  to  your 
headstall,"  Kendry  said,  unteased.  Eastwood  mused. 

"  Anyway,"  he  said,  '"  Mab  will  turn  it  all  down. 
She'd  have  you  searched  for  it  at  the  church  door !  " 
He  shook  his  head.  "  Your  white  silk  balloon  won't 
go  up  because  you've  got  Miss  Marr  in  it ! "  he  pro- 
nounced. "  Of  course  it's  not  my  affair,"  his  state- 


TWO    LETTERS  181 

ment  went  unchallenged ;  "  but  why  don't  you  let  me 
handle  this  business  of  Paulter  for  the  good  I  get  out 
for  Miss  Marr,  as  /  understand  her  case?  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  Mab." 

"  My  course  is  determined  by  the  *  idea/  "  Kendry 
said.  "  I  saw  Mary  this  afternoon." 

"  Without  staking  out  a  reason  for  calling  again 
to-night?  Now  do  you  think  she'll  let  any  kind  of 
hand-painted  '  idea '  stand  between  her  and  what  she 
owns  ?  " 

"  She  might  let  it  be  the  common  point  to  draw  us 
together,"  Kendry  said,  pacing  the  floor.  "You 
make  me  look  like  a  gingerbread  parson,"  he  ex- 
claimed, vexed  at  having  yielded  so  much  of  his  hopes. 
"I'm  only  twenty- four  years  old!  My  idea  isn't  a 
complexion  pill !  It's  a  battle  horse,  and  I'll  do  a  few 
jumps  that  will  make  you  sit  up,  one  of  these  days. 
But  while  I'm  learning  to  ride  it,  give  me  room  to 
tumble  off  in !  "  Eastwood  looked  at  him  with  some 
approval. 

"  But  you  talk  about  a  '  common  point/  "  he  said. 
"  I  merely  wish  to  say  that  I  have  been  Mab's  brother 
ever  since  she  was  born,  and  she's  more  years  to  the 
good  than  look  best  on  a  marriage  license.  I'll  tell 
you  what  will  be  the  common  point  with  Mab.  It  will 
be  Mab.  She's  a  Europo-maniac — and  that's  the 
Americanest  thing  with  hairpins.  She  turns  around 
on  her  pivot  and  thinks  she's  an  aristocrat.  Well, 
you've  only  got  to  let  her  think  she's  made  a  mor- 


182  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

ganatic  marriage  and  she'll  have  a  sorrowing  love  for 
you  all  your  life ! "  He  took  a  breath.  "  You  and 
she  could  double  your  joint  fortune  in  ten  years. 
This  town  will  never  go  backwards  again.  Lord,  how 
long  does  it  take  you  to  sense  a  letter  from  a  lady, 
on  your  own  table !  "  he  pointed. 

Kendry  pocketed  Mary's  letter,  together  with 
another  in  a  writing  he  did  not  know.  He  said  he  had 
a  brief  engagement  with  a  man.  He  left  Eastwood 
an  extra  bottle  and  a  diagram  sent  by  the  Secret  Ser- 
vice Agent  showing  the  meeting  place  of  the  party 
whose  exploit  presently  would  so  concern  the  fortunes 
of  Arthur  Paulter. 

It  would  be  a  relief  to  get  away  from  Eastwood, 
and  that  it  was  after  one  in  the  morning  would  not 
prevent  his  finding  Chan  Kow.  Apparently  there 
never  was  a  time  of  night  when  he  could  not  be  found 
beneath  his  lantern  lights.  Kendry  avoided  the  local- 
ity near  the  rendezvous  appointed  by  Kelly.  He  went 
by  California  Street,  where  the  last  street  cars,  with 
their  double  clang  of  gong  and  their  rattle  of  ratchet 
on  cable-grip,  trundled  up  with  headlights  shining  on 
deserted  streets.  He  turned  into  a  by-way  where  the 
electric  lamps  threw  still  shadows  of  balconies  and 
wooden  awnings  against  houses  which  gave  no  illumi- 
nation from  within.  In  the  distances  the  clash  of 
cymbals  and  the  rapid  drum  against  the  soaring  fiddle 
escaped  from  closed  shutters  and  betokened  ban- 
quets or  propitiations  of  the  gods.  The  air  escaped 


TWO    LETTERS  183 

from  crevices  in  worn  partitions  and  drifted  out 
through  grimy  halls,  bearing  the  fumes  of  opium,  of 
acrid  tobacco  moistened  with  brandy,  of  salted  sea- 
food and  noisome  vegetables,  and  of  the  odor  that 
clings  mustily  to  fabrics  imported  from  the  coast  of 
Asia.  Words  came,  too,  in  a  language  whose  four 
intonations  made  it  seem  half  spoken,  half  sung. 

At  each  forbidden  gambling  house  the  voices  rose 
from  back  of  heavy  doors,  guarded  latticed  and 
screened  windows,  where  hid  the  discriminating  hand 
that  held  the  latch  string.  From  one  cellar  rose  the 
rumble  of  many  sewing  machines.  He  saw  a  white 
man  leaning  in  a  shadow,  with  a  private  watchman's 
star  glinting  from  his  citizen's  clothes.  The  fierce 
blurred  eyes  of  a  hard-mouthed  Celestial  with  loose 
scalp-locks  took  notice  of  him.  From  a  dark  hallway 
plastered  with  Chinese  lettering  on  red  posters  an 
American  woman,  aged,  bedraggled,  leered  back  at 
Kendry.  Two  weazened,  beardless  faces  under  nar- 
row brimed  soft  hats  drooped  along  with  mutually 
supporting  shoulders;  their  bodies  would  have  shown 
countless  wounds  from  the  hollow  needle.  They  dis- 
appeared into  black  holes  below  street  level.  All 
these  apparitions  were  the  links  between  the  silent 
starry  night  without  and  the  crowded  activities  of 
trade,  pleasure  and  vice  within,  sealed  from  the  for- 
eign devil's  interfering  conscience  by  the  universal 
wooden  shutter. 

The  alley  at  whose  blind  end  was  Chan  Row's  door 


184  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

was  contrastingly  without  suggestion  of  inner  life. 
Kendry  enjoyed  the  presence  of  a  pistol  in  his  pocket, 
to  balance  the  shadows  wherein  he  could  imagine  him- 
self surprised  by  such  a  man  as  Arthur  Paulter.  There 
was  no  one  in  sight.  Kendry  lifted  the  folding  door  in 
the  sidewalk  and  pressed  the  point  of  his  penknife 
through  the  small  hole  in  the  panel  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps.  He  presently  began  to  wonder  whether  Chan 
Kow,  after  what  must  have  been  strenuous  days,  had 
not  declared  a  period  of  seclusion  for  himself.  Then  he 
observed  that  the  distant  electric  bell  gave  no  response 
to  his  pressure  with  the  penknife.  He  tried  the  latch. 
The  door  swung  open.  If  a  careless  servant  had  so 
left  Chan  Kow's  stronghold  exposed  to  his  enemies 
it  was  a  part  of  friendliness  to  inform  him.  Kendry 
lighted  the  candle  end  he  had  provided  for  the  under- 
taking with  Kelly.  To  his  steps  along  the  familiar 
musty  passage  toward  the  stairs  he  heard  no  answer- 
ing stir  from  above.  He  knocked  on  the  joists  over 
his  head,  preferring  not  to  be  met  as  an  intruder. 
Then  he  ascended  and  knocked  at  the  first  of  those 
rooms  where  he  had  begun  to  believe  women  of  his 
own  race  were  dwelling  in  primeval  relationship  to 
the  master.  There  was  no  reply,  but  he  did  not  turn 
the  knob.  He  called  the  name  of  Chan  Kow,  to  an 
empty  echo.  Had  Chan  Kow  fled?  Kendry  opened 
the  door  to  the  garden.  The  draught  blew  out  his 
candle,  but  the  starlight  showed  the  way.  The  var- 
nished red  silk  lanterns,  without  lights,  still  hung  at 


TWO    LETTERS  185 

the  balconies;  the  dwarf  pine  stood  unchanged.  But 
across,  in  the  wing  where  Chan  Kow  had  his  private 
chambers,  the  lower  room  was  stripped  of  its  carvings 
and  bare  of  its  furniture.  Chan  Kow  had  departed 
and  he  had  not  wished  Kendry  to  know  when  or 
whither.  Reminiscence  led  Kendry  to  ascend  to  where 
he  first  had  spoken  of  Paulter  to  the  two  older  men. 
He  smiled  at  the  memory  of  it.  The  still  sky  glittered 
from  over  the  low  roof  opposite.  The  doors  to  the 
balcony  were  closed ;  but  the  peaceful  air  of  this  strange 
seclusion  was  not  yet  stale.  He  crossed  for  a  look 
out  on  the  balconies  and  stumbled  over  a  prostrate 
man. 

It  caused  him  to  spring  back  to  the  wall,  unhandily 
seeking  his  pistol.  After  a  moment  he  retreated  to 
the  cover  of  the  stair  opening  and  relighted  his  candle. 

The  body  lay  in  the  blood  from  a  heavy  slanting  cut 
at  the  side  of  the  neck.  The  diminutive  senile  frame 
with  its  false  cue  included,  might  have  weighed  a  hun- 
dred pounds.  The  small  eyes,  glassy  in  the  still  flame 
of  the  candle,  had  been  canny  and  penetrating.  Ken- 
dry  recalled  the  dried  skin  of  the  little  man  who  had 
sat  here  in  blank  unresponsiveness  to  his  first  mention 
of  the  name  of  Paulter.  Then  he  remembered  the 
hatchet  strapped  on  Chan  Kow's  arm.  How  much 
had  Kendry's  visit  on  that  night  counted  in  the  chain 
of  events  that  finished  with  this  murder,  in  the  last 
of  Chan  Kow's  intrigues  in  a  Chinatown  that  perhaps 
had  become  too  dangerous  for  him.  It  was  Kendry's 


1S6  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

farewell  to  that  unfathomable  old  man.  He  could 
not  forbear  drawing  his  pistol  as  he  looked  to  begin 
his  retreat.  Then  the  folded  paper  in  the  dead  man's 
fingers  seemed  to  demand  his  attention.  Kendry  lis- 
tened. What  had  been  silence  now  contained  the  dis- 
tant barking  of  a  dog,  the  moan  of  a  fiddle  from  over 
the  housetops  seeking  entrance  at  the  balcony  doors. 
He  drew  the  paper  forth,  apprehensive  of  giving 
motion  to  the  lifeless  hand.  The  message  was  in 
French : 

"To  my  friend  Jack:  By  the  one  honest  service  of  this 
double-faced  Ting  Lee,  his  enemy: 

"In  spring,  when  the  sap  is  in  the  branch,  the  blossom 
pushes  from  the  twig:  and  its  fragrance  and  defenseless  beauty 
are  to  cherish  or  to  blast.  When  no  blossom  pushes  from  the 
twig,  then  either  it  is  not  spring  or  there  is  no  sap  in  the 
branch,  or  both.  This  is  a  little  more  than  wisdom.  There- 
fore it  may  be  percieved  by  a  young  man :  who  need  not  waste 
his  youth  in  the  shadow  of  a  hollow  bough." 

In  that  lonely  chamber  it  bore  no  significance  to 
John  Kendry.  He  made  haste  for  the  living  air.  He 
stuffed  the  paper  into  his  pocket,  where  it  lay  between 
the  unopened  envelope  of  Mary  Eastwood  and  the 
unopened  letter  whose  writing  was  unfamiliar  to  him. 


CHAPTER   XV 

A  TRANSACTION    IN  OXYGEN 

THE  memory  of  that  still  room  vibrated  above  the 
thought  of  what  he  next  was  bent  on.  To  go  with 
other  armed  men  and  surprise  a  group  of  criminals 
in  their  den  gave  him  no  heroic  thrill.  He  came  into 
a  close  and  grimy  alley  with  high  buildings  on  both 
sides,  of  brick  and  loosening  stucco.  All  the  doors 
were  narrow  and  of  thick  wood ;  all  the  lower  windows 
were  small  and  square  and  above  hand  reach  from  the 
pavement.  These  had  no  casements :  only  coarse  wire 
netting,  man-proof,  offered  itself  to  the  weather. 
An  occasional  window  acted  as  a  frame,  artfully 
lighted ;  the  living  picture  was  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  a  Chinese  slave  girl,  alluringly  alone,  in  modest  pro- 
file, painted  and  penciled  and  gaudily  decked.  Of  the 
windows  that  were  dark  one  was  next  the  unclosed 
doorway  marked  on  Kelly's  diagram.  A  policeman 
was  pacing  through  the  alley  as  Kendry  passed  it. 
Returning  when  the  policeman  was  gone  Kendry  dove 
into  the  silent  darkness  and  met  a  reassuring  syllable 
from  the  dim  form  of  Eastwood.  Kelly  pulled  them 

by  the  sleeves.     They  groped  by  a  double  turn  in  the 

187 


188  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

corridor,  to  where  he  lighted  a  candle  and  led  them 
down  some  winding  stairs.  The  place  had  been  pre- 
tentious in  the  '50*5,  the  walnut  balustrade  declared. 
It  grew  more  musty  and  odorous  while  they  descended 
farther  creaking  steps,  stretching  over  broken  treads. 
On  the  dirt  floor  of  the  cellar  there  was  a  gaseous 
moisture  as  of  seepage  from  imperfect  drains.  They 
walked  looking  at  the  back  of  Kelly's  small  head.  It 
flattened  into  thin  cords,  unpleasantly.  His  stature 
took  no  heed  of  the  floor  joists  to  which  they  had  to 
stoop.  Around  in  an  ell  he  lifted  a  trap  in  the  floor 
and  held  his  candle  in  the  still  less  welcome  air  that 
rushed  up  through  it. 

"You  want  me  to  go  first,  and  one  of  you  guard 
the  rear?"  he  said,  without  taking  his  eyes  from  the 
black  hole  into  which  he  peered. 

"  It's  my  privilege  to  go  first,"  Kendry  said.  To 
appear  to  Paulter  without  the  supporting  presence  of 
a  Federal  officer  appealed  to  his  pride.  He  dropped 
through  the  trap,  expanding  his  lungs  for  more  air. 
He  wanted  the  adventure  to  be  over.  It  was  mere  dull 
drudgery  in  the  service  of  the  idea.  The  murder  at 
the  theater,  the  body  at  Chan  Kow's,  the  intrigues  he 
imagined  of  Paulter,  all  were  a  surfeit  at  one  with  the 
atmosphere  he  was  trying  to  breathe.  He  made  a 
note  that  he  would  take  the  first  morning  boat  to  the 
freshness  of  the  mountain,  there  to  erase  from  mem- 
ory this  final  expedition  into  the  spot  of  decay.  He 
would  linger  near  the  mountain  till  the  moment  when 


A    TRANSACTION  IN  OXYGEN          189 

he  should  meet  Miss  Marr.  Kelly  pointed  down  to 
them  a  direction  for  their  cautious  approach. 

"  Tell  'em  '  hands  up ' ;  see  all  there  is  to  see ;  then 
back  out.  A  man  ain't  going  to  jail  for  twenty  years, 
if  he  can  prevent  it,"  he  grimly  said,  staring  at  space. 

They  left  him  a  shadow  from  above,  pistol  in  hand. 
Their  candles  showed  a  studded  door  which,  if  men 
were  at  work  beyond  it,  promised  an  atmosphere  less 
distressing.  The  steel  bar,  fastening  it  on  the  outside, 
seemed  to  prove  that  there  was  more  than  one  entrance 
to  the  coiners'  retreat.  The  two  pulled  open  the  door 
less  with  prudence  than  with  the  insistent  thought  of 
air.  It  swung  to  again  behind  them,  on  canted  hinges ; 
the  foulness  was  increasing;  there  was  the  necessity 
of  descending  farther  into  an  effluvia  that  gave  them 
pause. 

"  This  is  the  last  door  for  me,"  Eastwood  panted,  at 
the  foot  of  the  steep  steps.  Here  they  opened  into 
a  space  cut  out  of  the  scaling  rock,  where  the  air  struck 
on  their  lungs  like  a  tangible  substance  and  where 
still  there  was  no  sign  of  human  activity.  Out  of  it 
they  quickened  their  pace  along  a  winding  tunnel, 
beads  rising  on  their  brows.  It  was  no  longer  possi- 
ble to  breathe  through  their  nostrils.  They  came  into 
a  chamber  the  counterpart  of  the  one  they  had  left. 
Kendry  brought  up  abhorrently  pointing  to  the 
ground. 

"  More  dead  men !  "  he  protested.  Eastwood  sup- 
ported himself  against  the  wall.  He  seemed  to  will 


190  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

Kendry  to  be  first  to  sound  the  obvious  need  of  re- 
treat. Those  who  lay  on  the  ground  were  the  Pole 
and  the  sailor,  with  whom,  at  the  restaurant,  in  the 
presence  of  Kelly,  alias  Collins,  Kendry  had  first  dis- 
cussed counterfeiting  in  Chinatown.  Their  clothes 
were  torn  away  at  their  chests,  but  they  bore  no  sign 
of  wounds.  Kendry  felt  the  heart  of  the  Pole:  the 
man  was  not  yet  dead.  Involuntarily  Kendry  turned 
his  glance  to  the  tunnel,  as  if  someone  was  pursuing 
him. 

"  Yes,  yes — out  of  this !  "  Eastwood  uttered.  Ken- 
dry  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder : 

"Not  without  them!"  Eastwood  halted;  but  his 
eyes  did  not  seek  the  men  on  the  ground.  Kendry 
raised  the  lighter  of  them  in  his  arms  and  stag- 
gered into  the  tunnel.  Eastwood  caught  him  by  the 
wrists. 

They  heard  someone  bounding  down  the  steps. 
The  door  slammed.  The  bolts  shot.  The  footsteps 
began  leisurely  ascending  again. 

Kendry  let  the  body  of  the  Pole  slide  to  the  ground. 
There  came  over  him  a  wave  of  helplessness  and  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  trying  to  live  on  the  bottom  of 
the  sea. 

They  ran  carroming  against  the  winding  wall. 
They  beat  on  the  door  with  their  pistol  butts,  loudly 
commanding  Kelly  to  return.  They  threw  off  their 
coats  and  tore  off  their  collars.  They  lost  recognition 
of  each  other's  presence;  Kendry  ran  back  through 


A    TRANSACTION  IN  OXYGEN          191 

the  lengthening  distance  to  where  the  sailor  lay.  He 
found  no  outlet ;  he  saw  no  splinter  that  could  be  used 
against  the  door.  Without  purpose  he  started  to  re- 
turn to  it.  The  two  collided  at  the  middle  of  the 
passage,  their  hands  on  each  other's  shoulders,  their 
fingers  dripping  with  candle  grease.  Eastwood  reeled 
against  the  wall;  his  face  was  gray  and  glistening 
with  sweat.  Without  volition  he  discharged  his  pis- 
tol into  the  creviced  stone.  The  two  stumbled  away 
from  the  suffocating  smoke,  in  opposite  directions, 
along  the  tunnel  that  appeared  to  lengthen  as  they  ran. 
It  was  no  longer  possible  to  keep  one's  feet.  Kendry 
dropped  on  his  hands  and  knees  beside  the  form  of  the 
sailor.  It  was  growing  time  to  halt,  to  pull  one's 
self  together,  to  rest  and  to  think. 

He  must  keep  controlled,  he  said,  to  the  candle  that 
was  burning  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  Eastwood  was 
beating  on  the  door  again :  that  was  foolish,  that  was 
panic-stricken.  Kelly  would  never  open  that  door. 
One  must  rest,  one  must  reduce  one's  effort.  One 
must  lie  out  flat  and  not  let  the  candle  set  one 
on  fire. 

It  lessened  the  difficulty  of  breathing.  One  must 
not  stir  a  finger  till  one  had  figured  what  one  was  to 
do.  Every  movement  of  a  muscle  ate  the  oxygen 
from  the  blood. 

Eastwood  was  still  tattooing  on  the  door — violent 
action  such  as  doubtless  had  overcome  the  sailor  and 
the  Pole,  though  it  was  not  plain  how  they  had  fallen 


192  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

so  far  from  the  entrance.  Even  the  candle  ate  up 
oxygen,  though  to  call  Eastwood's  attention  to  this 
would  eat  up  more.  Presently  he  would  blow  out  his 
own.  It  threw  the  sharp  shadows  of  the  projecting 
rock — rock  everywhere.  There  was  a  piece  of  paper 
pinned  on  the  sailor's  coat.  Was  it  more  nonsense 
from  Chan  Kow?  He  must  see,  slowly,  without 
waste  of  effort.  It  was  only  the  sailor's  name,  and 
the  Pole's,  rudely  written,  with  their  abodes  and  with- 
out comment.  They  would  die;  but  he  had  no  inten- 
tion of  dying;  he  must  think. 

First :  for  emergency,  for  in  case  of  failure,  he,  too, 
must  write.  He  sat  up  against  the  wall.  He  brought 
out  the  two  letters,  the  message  from  Chan  Kow,  with 
one  grasp. 

After  a  little  while  he  laid  hold  of  his  pencil.  He 
must  write  while  his  mind  was  clear,  while  the  little 
groan  still  held  down  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  It 
never  should  be  allowed  to  rise;  he  presently  would 
have  a  plan;  but  he  reached  for  a  piece  of  paper  to 
write  on. 

"  In  spring,  when  the  sap  is  in  the  branch — "  No ! 
The  meaningless  words  would  be  taken  for  ravings  of 
his  own.  He  would  use  the  back  of  this  envelope 
from  Mary — it  was  ridiculous  that  he  had  not  yet 
opened  it.  As  soon  as  he  had  written  something  to 
her,  he  would.  He  must  write  to  Mary  and  he  must 
write  to  Miss  Marr — to  Ethel ;  no  other  address  would 
express  his  friendly,  his  brotherly,  his  fatherly  solici- 


A    TRANSACTION  IN  OXYGEN          193 

tude.  When  that  labor  was  over  he  would  revolve 
his  plan  for  getting  out  of  this.  He  began  on  the  back 
of  Mary's  envelope: 

DEAR  ETHEL  MARR: 

She  must  understand  that  he  could  spare  only  time 
for  getting  strength  to  assault  that  door.  He  stared 
at  the  envelope.  His  breath  came  noisily  from  a  dried 
throat.  The  words :  "  Dear  Ethel,  Dear  Ethel,  Dear 
Ethel,"  ran  in  a  circle  around  his  brain.  He  would 
write  to  Ethel,  then  he  would  read  Mary's  letter.  Then 
he  would  write  to  Mary — making  these  communica- 
tions served  the  remote  contingency  of  his  failing  at 
the  door.  It  was  a  crisis  he  was  living  through,  a 
serious  one;  and  he  must  get  accustomed  to  the  at- 
mosphere. He  presently  should.  By  Jove,  he  then 
would  think  out  something.  Something  with  a  pen- 
knife and  an  iron  will.  There  was  nothing  real  in  the 
world  but  will,  he  informed  the  stones,  ignoring  pas- 
sion, ignoring  death.  Eastwood  ought  to  have  kept 
up  that  companionable  little  drumming  on  the  door. 
"  Dear  Ethel,  Dear  Ethel,  Dear  Ethel—"  He  thrust 
out  his  legs  and  jammed  his  head  mercilessly  against 
the  wall : 

GOOD  SISTER  ETHEL: 

If  the  world  moves  through  new  space  I  thought  I  had  come 
to  where  one  looks  overboard  and  see  her  cut  the  waters  of  eter- 
nity. I  thought  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Direction,  the  Expla- 
nation, the  Satisfaction,  the  Destination.  But  the  candle 
smokes  horribly — 


194  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

It  was  better  to  unbutton,  to  remove,  carefully,  bare 
to  the  waist,  than  convulsively  to  clutch  and  tear.  The 
effort  brought  him  to  drop  the  envelope  and  lean 
more  comfortably  on  his  elbow.  Trust  him  to  be 
canny  with  that  little  supply  of  oxygen ;  he  would  light 
the  world  from  it,  yet !  His  finger  touched  the  other 
letter:  something  to  coax  him  to  be  still  till  he  could 
crawl  over  the  mountainous  body  of  the  Pole  and 
make  that  journey  through  the  tunnel.  The  writing 
was  strong,  yet  smaller  and  a  little  more  rounded  than 
Mary's.  It  was  a  woman's  writing.  It  was  good  to 
have  another  friend : 

DEAR  MR.  KENDRY: 

That  was  out  of  the  quality  of  our  acquaintance,  for  my 
bow  to  be  ambiguous.  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  on  the 
mountain.  Often  when  I  have  been  alone  there  I  have  seen 
life  as  you  see  it — only  less  clearly  and  deeply  and  hopefully. 
But  you'll  have  reflected  that  my  going  there  wouldn't  be 
wise. 

There  are  greater  things  stirring  than  new  garments.  We 
shall  have  left  Telegraph  Hill.  If  I  don't  give  you  my  new 
address  your  quick  understanding  will  not  charge  me  severely. 
I  wish,  you  the  happiness  you  look  forward  to  in  the  ways  I 
think  1  divine.  There  will  come  a  time  when  the  values  of  some 
quantities  will  have  changed  and  much  of  our  work  and  danger 
will  be  past.  So  I  take  some  comfort  in  believing  that  your 
interest  in  me  will  have  survived  grey  hairs;  and  that  some 
day,  when  no  one  will  care  whom  I  go  to  meet,  there  still  will 
be  the  mountain — with  the  manzanita  still  flowering;  the 
ceanothus  as  fragrant  as  now.  I  shall  never  be  too  old  for  the 
mountain.  I  shall  die  on  my  way  to  its  summit.  May  you, 
too,  never  be  too  old  for  it.  And  I  shall  faithfully  be  your 
friend  Ethel  Marr. 


A    TRANSACTION  IN  OXYGEN          195 

He  must  get  to  that  door  now :  he  must  get  where 
there  was  food  for  his  heart  to  do  for  her  what  the 
idea  commanded  him!  She  couldn't  accomplish  her 
destiny  without  him.  The  duty  of  reading  Mary's 
letter,  too;  then — to  start.  He  groped  for  the  letter. 
The  candle  flame  was  amber  and  black. 

"  When  the  blossom  does  not  push  from  the  twig — " 
No!  It  was  a  stupid  affront  if  he  couldn't  recognize 
the  hand  of  Mary  Eastwood! 

You  tore  off  so  madly,  dear  Jack,  that  it  escaped  me  to 
ask  you  to  dinner  soon.  If  not  to-night,  then  to-morrow  night. 
Mother  goes  to  Menlo;  Hal  dines  at  his  club.  Don't  be  silly 
when  this  comes  to  you.  I  'm  a  dreadfully  difficult  person.  I 
always  shall  be.  Devotedly  yours, 

Mary. 

A  little  punctuation  would  have  changed  that :  "  I 
always  shall  be  devotedly  yours,  Mary!"  A  little 
punctuation,  a  little  punctuation,  a  little  punctuation. 
The  candle  cocked  its  wick  at  him,  from  a  puddle  of 
grease.  Eastwood  must  have  sauntered  home,  long 
ago.  But  a  letter  must  go  to  Mary.  Where  had  he 
left  off  in  the  one  he  had  begun  to  her?  He  could 
lay  hold  of  it  without  help.  This :  "  the  Satisfaction, 
the  Destination.  But  the  candle  smokes  horribly " 

"  Nevertheless,"  he  went  on  with  it,  "  your  invita- 
tion to  dinner  is  delightful.  I  shall  be  there  before 
our  hair  is  gray.  I  shall  die  on  my  way .  to  the 
ceanothus  blossom,  in  the  spring,  when  the  sap " 


196  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

When  the  sap,  when  the  sap,  when  the  sap — he  more 
feasibly  rolled  over  on  his  back.  His  hand  extin- 
guished the  sputtering  of  the  candle.  Of  course,  that 
saved  the  oxygen  the  candle  wished  to  steal  from  him. 
Once  with  the  weight  of  the  ceiling  off  his  chest,  he 
would  go  ahead  with  the  idea.  The  idea  did  not  wish 
to  hurt  anyone.  God,  he  tore  at  the  muscles  of  his 
chest,  he  would  go  ahead  with  it  anyway!  If  the 
sailor  wouldn't  take  the  letter  to  Mary,  someone  else 
should.  Damn  the  laziness  of  the  sailor.  One  had 
never  dined  alone  with  Mab ;  it  meant  having  her  con- 
sent; it  meant  firing  her  cold  lips  before  the  evening 
was  out.  Cold  lips — cold  lips — Ethel  Marr  would 
take  the  letter!  Ethel  Marr  would  do  him  any  deed 
so  vital  to  his  happiness.  Excellent!  Ethel  had  put 
a  special  delivery  stamp  on  it;  she  was  delivering  it 
herself.  That  erectness,  that  smoothness  on  ball  of 
foot — most  beautiful  movement  of  perfect  limbs  and 
soundest  heart  on  service  bent !  The  street  was  clean 
and  wind  swept;  the  sun  shone  coolly,  brightly,  glis- 
tening in  her  hair.  Her  eyes  widened,  clearly  to  see 
her  sweet  blue  destination,  her  duty  to  be  done  without 
a  blur.  This  was  the  corner  where  Mary  dwelt.  The 
door  of  Mary's  house  was  shut.  Ethel's  blue  serge 
had  a  tiny  darn  in  it.  What,  ye  tiny  darns?  The 
woman,  the  woman,  within  ye!  Up  the  steps.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white  petticoat.  She  smiled  at 
the  blank  door.  Both  her  dear  hands  held  his  letter. 
The  door  would  not  open,  but  she  smiled  and  the  cor- 


A    TRANSACTION  IN  OXYGEN          197 

ners  of  her  mouth  were  a  curve  that  contained  all  the 
loveliness  in  the  world.  Loveliness  in  the  world,  love- 
liness— loveliness  in  the  world!  But  the  door  would 
not  open  and  the  candle  was  dead.  There  was  no 
sap  in  it,  or  it  was  not  spring,  or  both.  She  ought 
not  to  be  out  at  midnight,  alone!  Alone,  alone — and 
they  would  not  open  the  door.  Open  the  door — the 
door — the  door 


CHAPTER   XVI 

RICH  YOUNG  MEN 

WITHOUT  a  conscious  process  it  had  established  itself 
for  him  that  by  the  parting  of  his  sealed  lids  he  could 
look  into  the  eyes  of  Ethel  Marr.  Her  hair  would  be 
shedding  light;  she  would  be  kneeling  and  pressing 
her  fingers.  Beyond  would  be  the  glory  of  great  still 
distance — mountains  and  verdure  and  pointed  trees 
bathed  in  the  air  of  the  sea. 

When,  by  a  reflex  beyond  his  control,  as  from  cold 
water  dashed  in  his  face,  he  did  look  up,  the  vision  dis- 
solved. The  light  was  opaquely  from  one  side,  ob- 
scured by  the  movement  of  figures  he  did  not  examine. 
If  the  air  was  not  that  of  a  pest-hole,  it  yet  was  not 
that  of  the  sea.  Save  for  the  hovering  figures  the 
room  was  a  barren  space  of  grimy  walls.  Time  lapsed 
without  registering  its  passage.  The  worst  was  over : 
he  no  longer  offered  the  resistance  necessary  to  pain. 
Hidden  hands  pulled  his  clothing  together  at  the  chest 
and  thrust  his  arms  into  his  coat. 

Farther  down  than  his  sense  of  self-preservation  lay 
pride.  They  supported  him  on  his  feet.  Pride  re- 
sponded with  some  self-control.  He  accepted  a  degree 
of  responsibility,  collapsing  though  his  heart  seemed. 

198 


RICH    YOUNG    MEN  199 

There  had  been  murders:  in  a  theater,  in  a  lonely 
house,  in  a  pit  beneath  the  ground.  Each  one  had 
made  a  slice  in  his  brain.  The  only  place  where  that 
could  be  cured  was  on  the  top  of  a  mountain. 

"  Cab !  "  he  swayed.  There  was  some  conversation. 
He  received  from  it  a  faint  impression  of  class,  of  locu- 
tion foreign  to  him.  The  corridor  opened  into  the 
cab.  The  door  of  the  cab  was  the  door  of  the  corri- 
dor. The  air  of  the  cab  was  the  air  of  the  sea.  The 
line  of  the  moving  curb  was  the  horizon.  His  imagi- 
nation made  demand  for  action,  grinding  against  his 
forehead;  but  his  muscles  hung  without  twitching. 
He  had  existed  forever;  only  once  had  he  been  in  the 
heaven  of  music  and  movement.  The  Pyrric  Dancers, 
winding  rhythmically  above  his  mantel,  the  fire  play- 
ing on  the  coals — they  were  in  that  heaven.  He  was 
not  able  to  wish  to  speak. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you  can  answer  a  question !  "  Paulter 
said.  "  Drink  it  down ! " 

The  liquor,  by  a  trick  of  the  brain — the  stirring  of 
a  memory  by  circumstances  similar  to  those  that  had 
created  it,  caused  him  again  to  expect  the  troubled 
waiting  eyes  under  a  mountain  cypress  branch.  He 
looked  up  at  thin  straight  lips. 

"Now,  what  will  you  give  for  yourself?"  Paulter 
said,  swinging  his  leg  from  the  table  where  he  brushed 
aside  the  books  and  papers.  "  You  started  out  to  cut 
a  hole  in  the  air,  and  you've  just  been  handed  back  to 
yourself  in  a  spoon ! "  He  took  up  a  paper-covered 


200  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

book.  "  That  explains  you ;  you  can  speak  three  for- 
eign languages,  maybe.  But  you  can't  speak  the 
American  language  and  you  can't  play  the  American 
game !  I've  taken  all  your  chips  and  I'm  here  to  cash 
'em  in !  "  He  slapped  down  the  book. 

Kendry's  hand  rose  uncertainly  toward  the  electric 
button  that  would  call  a  servant.  He  found  himself 
promptly  drawn  away  from  it  in  his  chair.  A  glim- 
mer of  light  came  into  his  eye. 

"  I  ain't  going  to  hurt  you !  "  Paulter  said.  "  I'll 
just  boil  you  down  and  show  you  what's  left,  before 
we  ring  any  bells.  You  got  taken  with  Miss  Marr. 
You  thought  she'd  be  a  touching  little  proposition  for 
a  while.  You  piped  me  off  for  a  crook,  after  what 
you'd  read  in  the  paper;  and  you  thought  you'd  land 
me — dead  easy,  somewhere  off  the  earth.  You  can 
pinch  me  and  see  if  I'm  here.  That  man  Collins  was 
the  tinsmith  you  ought  to  have  been  looking  for;  he 
put  a  dog  collar  on  you  and  took  you  out  for  a  walk. 
He's  over  the  border  by  now.  Why,  you  stirred 
things  up  so  for  your  friend  Chan  Kow  that  he's  gone 
up  in  a  balloon,  I  guess!  He  don't  know  what  you 
will  do !  You  wanted  to  put  me  behind  the  grid,  eh  ? 
I  could  have  let  you  fry,  down  in  that  hole;  you'd 
have  been  about  done  in  another  three  hours.  You'd 
have  been  out  of  my  way.  I  just  pulled  the  lid  off  out 
of  pure  generosity ;  and  I  saved  the  lives  of  the  whole 
bunch  of  you ! "  Kendry's  chin  had  settled  on  his 
chest. 


RICH    YOUNG   MEN  201 

"  Foolish,"  he  murmured.  "  How  much  do  you 
want  ?  "  Paulter  leaned  forward  and  shook  his  fore- 
finger. 

"  You  can't  buy  me  and  you  can't  pay  me  with 
money !  Now,  look  here,"  he  moderated,  "  let's  set- 
tle this  as  between  two  gentlemen.  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  your  feelings;  but  you  haven't  made  good  with 
Miss  Marr,  you  sure  haven't;  and  when  you  tried  to 
do  me,  you  fell  down.  That's  all  right:  you  can  get 
busy  somewhere  else  quick  enough.  But  I  want  to 
relieve  the  anxiety  of  Miss  Marr's  mother,  see  ?  Now, 
as  a  gentleman,  what's  your  proposition,  when  I've 
just  handed  you  your  life?'* 

Kendry  half  opened  his  eyes. 

"  What's  yours?  "  he  said. 

Paulter  tossed  his  head. 

"  Would  I  have  to  teach  a  gentleman  what  proposi- 
tion he  ought  to  make  ?  " 

"  You'll  have  to  tell  me!  "  Kendry  hugely  sighed. 

"Well,  I  will  tell  you!"  Paulter  burst.  But  he 
hesitated;  for  once  he  looked  from  Kendry's  dull  at- 
tention on  him  to  the  fire.  "  If  it  was  me,"  he  com- 
plained, "  I'd  give  my  word  that  I'd  cut  Miss  Marr 
out,  that  I  wouldn't  see  her  after  this,  for  good,  ever !  " 
He  finished  with  an  injured  look :  "  I  wouldn't  take 
something  for  nothing !  "  Kendry  appeared  to  wait 
for  him  to  go  on.  "  I  didn't  stand  down  there  at  the 
door  and  try  to  bargain  with  you  for  your  life,"  Paul- 
ter said.  A  lock  of  his  hair  was  plastered  over  his 


202  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

forehead;  the  firelight  brought  out  the  shadows  of 
the  pockmarks  under  his  cheek  bones. 

"  How  did  you  know  that  I  was  there?  " 

"  I  ain't  going  to  tell  you  how,"  Paulter  shortly  said. 
"  You've  heard  my  proposition.  What  do  you  say?  " 

"  If  I  decide  on  it,  you'll  get  out?  " 

"  I  ain't  aching  for  your  society,"  Paulter  shrugged, 
with  the  restraint  of  some  hopefulness.  He  got  down 
and  drummed  on  the  table. 

"  Then  draw  on  me  at  the  bank.  My  friendships 
are  not  for  sale.  Now  get  out.  I  want  to  die." 
Kendry  closed  his  eyes.  The  man  stood  over  him  with 
bloodless  face. 

"By  God!"  he  began,  through  his  teeth.  There 
was  a  silence  in  which  the  figure  in  the  chair  stayed 
motionless.  Paulter  laughed.  '"  Hell ! "  he  said. 
He  jammed  on  his  hat  and  went  to  the  door.  "  You've 
got  her  handwriting  in  your  pocket;  I'll  take  charge 
of  that ! "  He  strode  back.  He  knocked  down  Ken- 
dry's  arm.  Again  he  turned  to  the  pallid  face  that 
ignored  him.  "  This  is  the  last  communication  you'll 
get  from  Ethel  Marr ! "  he  said. 

The  lights  from  the  thoroughfare  came  up  through 
the  windows.  The  traffic  swelled,  then  declined;  the 
fire  sank  with  it.  After  his  feeble  struggle  Kendry 
had  not  shifted  in  his  chair.  A  servant,  after  several 
knocks,  entered  and  turned  on  a  light  and  drew  the 
shades.  There  followed  and  was  left  alone  with  Ken- 
dry  a  young  woman  who  refrained  from  speaking. 


RICH    YOUNG   MEN  203 

She  stood  looking  to  the  armchair.  Kendry's 
breathing  was  regular,  if  faint;  his  pallor  was  not  of 
the  worst.  She  took  in  the  Pyrrhic  Dancers,  the  bust 
of  the  Unknown  Lady,  the  photograph  of  an  obscure 
Madonna  in  Siena,  set  against  the  restful  tint  of  the 
walls.  To  her  the  place  was  rich  and  warm  and 
desirable;  the  dark  oak  and  leather  were  of  masculine 
strength — a  bulwark  against  the  harsher  world  with- 
out. She  sighed.  Her  skin  was  of  too  milky  a  white- 
ness, with  a  spot  of  color  on  cheekbones  a  little  promi- 
nent beneath  her  pale  blue  eyes.  Her  hand  strayed  to 
the  books  on  the  table  while  her  glance  kept  returning 
to  Kendry.  Her  figure  was  slight,  but  her  bust  was 
full;  arrayed  against  her  youth  were  two  thin  lines 
above  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

At  the  end  of  her  inspection  she  stole  to  the  door  of 
his  bedroom.  She  surveyed  it  in  what  light  entered 
from  behind  her.  The  clock  on  his  dressing  table 
stood  at  ten ;  she  turned  back  the  hands  to  seven. 

She  knelt  before  him,  laying  coals  on  the  fire,  one 
by  one.  She  touched  his  hand  with  the  tip  of  her 
nose,  then  touched  her  nose  to  her  own  hand.  She 
left  him  with  a  rug  laid  over  his  knees  and  a  better 
light  on  his  face  from  the  reviving  flames,  while  she 
departed  into  his  bedroom  with  her  basket  suit  case. 
The  disappearance  of  her  hat  and  coat  behind  a  chair 
showed  her  in  a  white  duck  skirt  and  a  white  silk 
waist  with  deep  white  cuffs  and  collar  and  a  shaped 
apron  whose  strings  crossed  at  the  back.  Her  prep- 


204  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

arations  before  his  mirror  were  mixed  with  an  interest 
in  the  articles  on  the  table,  which  she  weighed  and 
caressed  and  sighed  over.  When  she  had  rearranged 
her  hair  and  topped  it  with  an  elaborate  white  cap,  she 
drew  from  her  pocket  a  little  pad  of  paper  leaves.  She 
listened ;  then  one  of  the  leaves  yielded  up  its  rosy  hue 
to  the  two  regions  beneath  her  eyes. 

Kendry  had  not  stirred.  In  her  low-heeled  slippers 
she  could  make  that  intimate  examination  of  his  books, 
his  pictures,  the  table  drawers,  his  desk,  for  which  she 
had  longed.  There  was  quality  in  everything,  quality 
which  the  letters,  if  they  were  otherwise  uninter- 
esting, proved  to  be  expensive.  When  she  had  ex- 
hausted the  room  the  clock  stood  at  eight.  She  stood 
for  a  while  gazing  for  the  first  time  intently  and  sub- 
jectively into  his  face.  There  came  into  her  own  a 
little  love,  a  little  reality. 

Afterward  he  awoke  to  see  her  seated  on  the  arm 
of  the  opposite  chair,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  gazing  into 
the  firelight.  There  was  the  aroma  of  coffee  from  his 
own  sideboard.  Some  shapely  inches  of  black  stock- 
ing showed  against  her  petticoat.  The  fire  cast  up 
color  and  rounding  shadow  advantageously  on  her 
profile.  Some  noise  had  awakened  him.  She  did  not 
turn  till  he  spoke. 

"  Georgiana ! "  Kendry  said.  She  sat  up  as  if 
startled,  then  smiled. 

"  They  sent  word  for  somebody.  I  thought  a 
cousin  would  just  do — a  little  more  than  a  stranger 


RICH    YOUNG   MEN  205 

and  so  much  less  than  a  sister !  "  she  tossed  him.  He 
stared  in  faint  appreciation  of  her  going  for  his  coffee. 
While  he  drank  she  felt  his  forehead,  resting  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair.  "  You  need  a  little  spoiling,  I  guess," 
she  tapped  his  hand.  "  I'll  ring  for  some  one  to  un- 
dress you." 

She  knelt  at  his  feet,  toasting  biscuits  by  the  fire. 
"  I  shall  have  a  chance  to  become  acquainted  with  my 
rare  cousin ! "  she  said.  "  Think  what  some  women 
would  give  to  be  here  to-night !  " 

"  Hm — nosegays !  "  Kendry  tried  to  meet  her.  He 
had  never  kept  a  valet;  a  bell-boy  came  and  managed 
to  make  a  more  presentable  invalid  of  him.  When  the 
boy  had  departed  she  opened  his  door  again,  bearing 
more  coffee  and  the  toast.  With  a  surprising  profes- 
sional knack  she  raised  him  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"Baby!"  she  giggled.  "You'll  soon  be  toddling 
about.  We'll  never  get  acquainted.  It  takes  me  back 
a  good  many  years  to  be  mauling  you  this  way !  "  He 
sought  to  dissimulate  an  unreasoning  embarrassment. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on  ?  "  he  managed  to  say. 
She  quickly  shrugged. 

"  You'd  better  drop  the  subject  of  me.  I'm  twenty- 
four  ;  I'm  a  trained  nurse.  When  I'm  not  on  a  case  I 
board  in  hall  rooms.  I  don't  love  anybody.  That's 
how  I'm  getting  on."  She  seemed  to  shake  her  own 
personality  from  her.  "  How  are  you  getting  on  ?  " 
she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Kendry  wearily 
answered. 


206  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

"  Ready  to  give  it  all  up,"  he  said.  Miss  Baine 
leaned  forward  to  him. 

"  So  ?  "  she  brilliantly  said.  "  I  could  bring  you  to 
life  with  the  mention  of  a  name:  Miss  Marr!"  He 
stared  blankly.  "  You're  pretending  not  to  be  wild 
about  her ! "  she  charged  again.  But  he  was  dull- 
eyed.  The  inquiry  faded  from  her  and  a  new  light 
came,  stimulating,  fixed  on  him.  "  Don't  you  think 
I  am  good  to  volunteer,  when  you  always  take  so  little 
interest  in  me?  Still,  since  I'm  a  cousin  you  treat  so 
much  like  a  stranger,  perhaps  that  adds  to  the  excite- 
ment of  being  here.  When  the  bell-boy  sees  that 
clock  I  shall  have  to  remember  that  I'm  your  cousin, 
though !  "  Kendry  nodded. 

"  Good  of  you  to  come.  I'll  send  you  home  in  a 
carriage,  if  you'll  ring,"  he  leaned  back.  She  seemed 
to  be  contemplating  his  closed  eyes. 

"  I  can  properly  stay  till  I've  put  you  to  sleep,  poor 
boy.  You  haven't  any  distressing  symptoms,  except 
weariness,"  she  lightly  smoothed  his  hand. 

"  It's  more  than  weariness,"  he  said  grimly  without 
opening  his  eyes :  "  it's  the  wisdom  of  the  dead.  I 
can  see  the  uselesness  of  the  whole  game !  " 

A  little  more  seriousness  would  have  been  her  wis- 
dom. "  Poor  doggie — was  he  weary !  "  Georgiana 
pouted,  her  hands  denting  the  coverlet.  Kendry 
opened  his  eyes.  "  Now,  you  shall  see  what  a  good 
doctor  I  am!  I'm  the  medicine,  myself.  Not  that 
I'm  so  easy  to  take,"  she  went  lightly  on.  His  re- 


RICH    YOUNG   MEN  207 

sponse  came  faintly  to  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "  But 
I'm  worth  taking.  I  mean  that  you  must  stop  think- 
ing about  yourself,  and  you  must  begin  to  think  about 
me.  As  a  gentleman  and  a  cousin,  you  must.  Be- 
cause I'm  not  happy,  and  I'm  not  fortunate." 

She  was  gravely  bent  on  him,  her  lip  caught  under 
her  teeth.  Certainly  her  leaning  forward,  her  bare 
arms,  made  her  alluring.  His  sense  of  a  present  in- 
difference was  a  sense  of  premature  old  age.  It  struck 
him  with  its  novelty.  He  wondered  how  long  he  could 
listen  to  her  with  such  inward  detachment. 

"  Go  on,"  he  laughed,  not  unkindly. 

"Oh,  the  medicine  is  real!"  she  welled.  "I 
shouldn't  offer  it  to  anyone  but  you.  How  should  you 
like  to  go  into  the  houses  of  stupid  women  to  do  all 
these  tender  things  for  their  people — people  you  don't 
care  about;  to  bring  in  all  the  strength  and  patience 
and  skill  they  don't  possess;  and  to  give  that  out  day 
after  day,  not  for  love,  but  only  for  a  living !  It  isn't 
very  decent ! "  she  was  successfully  appealing  to  him. 
"  And  the  men,"  she  added — "  they're  not  so  dread- 
fully handsome  as  you  are,  Jack ! " 

"  There's  no  accounting  for  taste,"  he  said ;  and  she 
did  not  notice  the  distinction  between  the  plural  and 
the  singular.  But  his  voice  was  indulgent.  "  You 
won't  last  long;  I  shall  meet  you  and  hear  you  wish 
you  were  a  trained  nurse  again.  That  costume  is  too 
engaging ;  and  you've  a  good  color " 

"  I  shouldn't  expect  to  be  freezing  up  just  at  this 


208  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

moment !  "  she  said  for  him,  with  a  glance  about  the 
room.  "  It's  high  noon  with  me ;  every  hour  from 
now  is  one  toward  sunset.  I'm  looking  cheerful,  I 
hope;  but  I  could  weep — this  minute!"  she  let  her 
eyes  fill.  Kendry's  sympathy  had  a  color  of  annoy- 
ance. 

"  But,  my  dear,  anyone  so  fetching  as  you  has 
only  to  wait  a  while."  She  put  down  her  handker- 
chief. 

"  I'm  willing  to,  patiently,  if  you  say  so ! "  she 
straightened.  The  handkerchief  hid  itself.  "  It's 
time  for  me  to  put  you  to  sleep." 

He  saw  the  light  go  out  in  the  other  room.  He 
was  blankly  awake.  She  then  screened  from  him  the 
light  by  the  dressing-table. 

"  That  coffee  must  have  been  terrifically  strong ! " 
he  sighed. 

"  Oh,  you're  not  so  dreadfully  awake,"  said  Geor- 
giana.  "  But  if  you  wish  to  sleep,  you  shall."  She 
began  stroking  his  forehead.  The  touch  was  so  light 
that  it  took  his  concentrated  attention  to  remain  cer- 
tain that  the  process  kept  on.  He  had  a  curious  im- 
pression of  lateness  of  the  hour.  Habituation  had 
taught  him  the  arrangement  of  sounds  to  be  associated 
with  midnight.  He  was  struck  by  the  interval  be- 
tween the  gongs  of  the  street  cars,  between  the  rumb- 
ling of  a  carriage  here  and  there.  She  turned  out  the 
light  and  the  fire  played  on  the  walls  from  beyond  the 
door.  She  seemed  to  sit  by  his  head. 


RICH    YOUNG   MEN  209 

"Isn't  it  getting  late  for  you?"  he  murmured,  to 
the  return  of  her  fingers. 

"  I  shall  stay  till  I'm  sure  of  you,"  she  spftly  said. 
"  But  you  must  give  yourself  up;  for  of  course  I  can't 
stay  forever.  Else  I  should  be  compromised;  and 
then  you'd  have  to  marry  me,  dear  Jack — wouldn't 
you  ? "  He  made  no  answer.  "  And  then  wouldn't 
you  have  a  time!"  she  laughed.  The  warming  tips 
of  her  fingers  were  not  soporific ;  at  first  they  stimulated 
his  brain.  He  tried  to  arrange  in  order  the  events  of 
the  last  two  days.  He  failed.  He  began  trying  to 
think  through  the  fingers  into  the  brain  that  actuated 
them.  It  was  a  feminine  mysterious  brain.  His  blood 
was  responding. 

"  Does  the  little  boy  like  this  ?  "  she  whispered,  her 
cap  grazing  his  ear. 

"Won't  say  I  don't,"  Kendry  muttered.  "But 
your  carriage ?  " 

"  When  I  feel  you  don't  want  me,  I'll  disappear," 
she  mildly  said.  He  reflected  that  he  could  safely 
leave  her  to  her  own  care.  The  finger  tips  kept  on, 
elusively,  insidiously.  He  decided  to  simulate  sleep. 
To  sleep  and  never  to  awake :  that  would  remove  much 
that  was  tempting  and  hollow,  much  that  was  dis- 
heartening and  dull;  it  would  take  away  the  burden 
of  a  large  fortune.  Her  breath  came  across  his  brow. 
He  began  inspiring  long  and  regularly.  His  last  im- 
pression was  that  she  stole  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE  DKS^RT  OF  DOUBT 


HE  dozed  and  dozed  again  before  he  responded  to 
the  clatter  of  the  street  and  accepted  the  beginning  of 
another  day.  Georgiana  Baine's  presence  seemed  to 
linger.  The  shade  swayed  in  the  air  from  the  half 
closed  window;  it  heightened  the  rounded  shadow  of 
a  mass  beneath  the  rug  he  remembered  leaving  by  the 
fire. 

At  his  movement  her  hand  fell  across  from  her  eyes, 
brushing  her  disordered  hair.  Her  cap  was  missing; 
she  was  smiling  in  her  sleep. 

Kendry  looked  to  the  doors.  He  listened  for  foot- 
steps along  the  corridor;  it  was  well  in  the  forenoon. 
She  was  awake,  brightly  spying  him. 

"  Poor  old  dead  man  !  "  she  sighed,  motionless.  She 
watched  his  mouth. 

"  Do  you  realize  that  it's  morning?"  said  Kendry. 
Her  eye  shot  at  his,  then  traveled  to  the  ceiling.  She 
started  up  and  looked  to  the  window. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  "Oh!"  she  hurried,  clutching 
her  hair,  without  a  look  behind  her.  Kendry  stared 
at  the  closed  door. 

He  began  to  hope  that  she  had  gone  home.  It 
would  be  the  tasteful  thing.  He  was  not  going  to  dis- 

210 


THE    DESERT    OF    DOUBT  211 

tress  himself  about  what  people  might  say,  might 
think.  The  hotel  was  large;  no  one  who  had  not 
watched  his  door  for  the  last  fourteen  hours  could 
speak  with  authority.  It  was  more  than  four  years 
since  he  had  seen  his  cousin;  he  could  not  remember 
her  making  much  of  the  occasion  then.  He  would 
send  her  some  valuable  acknowledgment  of  her  atten- 
tion and  the  incident  would  be  closed. 

She  appeared  to  him  bearing  the  tray.  Her  head 
was  erect;  her  eyes  looked  to  her  breast.  Her  hair 
she  had  combed  over  her  ears  and  knotted  at  the  neck. 
Only  her  mouth,  by  an  occasional  quiver  at  the  cor- 
ners gave  life  to  her  countenance.  Thus  she  waited 
while  uncomfortably  he  ate. 

He  thought  of  nothing  to  say  that  might  not  pre- 
cipitate the  atmospheric  moisture.  Mechanically  she 
bore  away  the  tray,  without  having  lifted  her  eyes. 
She  came  back  to  the  rug  and  presently  laid  hold  of 
it  and  began  to  fold  it.  Kendry  cleared  his  throat. 
The  sound  caused  the  rug  to  leave  her  hands.  She 
turned  away  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hanker- 
chief. 

"  Georgiana ! "  he  protested.  Her  right  hand 
dropped  next  him.  He  took  it  firmly  in  his  own. 
"  What  can  be  the  matter  ?  "  he  inanely  said.  Her 
fingers  lightly  pressed  his  own. 

"  You  can't  do  that,"  she  began  to  draw  her  hand 
away.  "  I  don't  belong  to  you."  He  accepted  her 
correction  and  she  angrily  choked. 


212  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

"  But  what's  the  matter?  "  he  suffered. 

"  That  bell-boy ;  it  was  the  same  one  as  last  night. 
He  said  things ! " 

Kendry  brought  his  fist  down  on  his  knee.  "  What 
did  he  say  to  you  ?  "  he  demanded.  Her  head  shook. 

"  Not  with  his  tongue,  not  to  me! "  she  wept.  "  He 
— he  only  looked  things.  I'm  compromised.  I — I 
didn't  think,  when  I  said  that  to  you  in  jest  last 
night,  that  I — should  be  standing  here  now,  at  the 
mercy — the  mercy ! "  she  ceased  to  articulate.  It 
seemed  an  hiatus  for  a  generous  and  a  rich  young 
man  to  fill. 

"  Try  a  couple  of  boiled  eggs,"  said  Kendry.  "  I've 
often  felt  this  way  myself  before  breakfast,  though 
not  under  these  unusual  circumstances.  Besides,"  he 
spanked  his  pillow,  "  there's  a  question  I  want  to  ask 
you." 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  mournfully  turned. 

"You  fell  asleep  while  you  were  so  thoughtfully 
watching  over  me  ?  "  She  nodded.  "  Where's  your 
cap  ?  "  said  Kendry. 

"Out  there,"  she  stupidly  pointed.  "Why?" 
Kendry  scanned  her.  There  was  no  mirror  in  his 
drawing-room.  One  of  her  cheeks  was  pink,  the  other 
chalky  white. 

"  Because,"  said  Kendry,  "  I  was  afraid  you  might- 
have  fallen  asleep  with  it  on — and  rumpled  it.  But 
you  didn't.  I  didn't  see  you  take  it  out  with  you  just 
now."  She  slowly  put  his  conclusions  together. 


THE    DESERT    OF    DOUBT  213 

"  Thank  you,"  she  coldly  said.  She  moved  to  the 
foot  of  his  bed;  the  two  lines  stood  out  above  her 
mouth.  "  You  don't  think  it's  serious,"  she  said. 
"  You  don't  count  the  woman  in  the  case.  Miss  Marr. 
She  told  me  to  come  here.  She  expected  me  to  meet 
her  at  the  ferry  last  night,  and  tell  her  how  you  were. 
Perhaps  she's  still  waiting  there." 

"  You  know  Miss  Marr  ?  " 

"We  went  to  the  High  School  at  the  same  time, 
while  you  were  being  taken  abroad.  Just  think  how 
much  sooner  you'd  have  met  her,  if  your  father  hadn't 
been  so  well  off !  They've  taken  a  house  near  where  I 
board  when  I'm  across  the  bay.  I  happened  to  speak 
of  you  and  she  couldn't  keep  still  about  having  met 
you  on  the  mountain  that  way." 

"  Why  should  she  ? "  said  Kendry.  Georgiana 
faintly  smiled. 

"  She  wanted  to  know  everything  about  you. 
She'll  want  to  know  why  I  didn't  turn  up  at  the  ferry. 
I  can't  tell  her  the  truth  because  she's  in  love  with 
you."  Kendry's  brow  rose.  "  And  if  I  lie  to  her 
she'll  find  it  out."  He  had  the  thrill  of  becoming  well 
acquainted  with  his  cousin.  "  What  do  you  advise 
me  to  do  ?  "  she  asked  of  the  bed-post. 

"  I  advise  you,  Georgiana,  to  tell  as  much  of  the 
truth  about  yourself  as  you  think  you  can  stand," 
said  Kendry.  "I'll  send  you  a  comfortable  check. 
If  any  one  asks  you  about  me,  tell  the  whole  truth !  " 

Georgiana   turned    away    toward    the    mirror.     A 


214  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

little  smile  hardened  her.  "If  it  had  been  Ethel 
Marr — "  she  began. 

"  Where  shall  I  send  your  check  ?  "  Kendry  roared. 
At  which  she  left  him  without  a  word. 

At  her  closing  of  the  door  to  the  corridor  the  win- 
dow shade  had  rustled  derisively  to  him.  He  sank  to 
the  pillows.  This  was  the  way  he  could  put  to  flight 
a  woman.  With  men,  once  he  had  pushed  into  the 
waters  where  they  indiscriminately  mixed,  he  monot- 
onously had  failed. 

Out  of  his  moral  convictions  he  had  undertaken  to 
accelerate  the  development  of  Ethel  Marr  in  the  hap- 
pier planes  she  reached  for.  He  had  met  with  total 
defeat,  and  he  was  in  a  mood  for  self-examination. 

It  had  been  from  the  fact  of  his  wealth  that  his 
logical  process  had  started;  but  his  good  will  toward 
men  and  his  optimistic  belief  in  mankind  had  not  been 
intended  to  be  expressed,  save  incidentally,  in  alms. 
For  what  he  was  to  try  to  do  he  had  found  reason  in 
no  scripture,  but  in  himself.  He  wished  to  force  him- 
self upon  no  beneficiary,  and  for  what  he  should 
accomplish  he  asked  no  reward  after  death,  no  recog- 
nition during  life,  and  expected  to  take  no  greater 
self-esteem.  His  reward  was  to  be  the  happiness  in 
the  doing.  To  his  outlook  the  extinction  of  individ- 
uals was  not  the  most  fearsome  of  evils:  life  seemed 
full  of  greater  peril  and  keener  suffering  than  death; 
and  he  thought  it  a  greater  mercy  to  rescue  a  high  type 
of  individual  from  life  than  in  behalf  of  a  low  type 


THE    DESERT    OF    DOUBT  215 

of  individual  to  delay  the  moment  of  death.  If  he 
took  it  upon  himself  to  decide,  for  himself,  who  was 
of  the  higher  and  who  was  of  the  lower  type,  that — he 
would  have  explained — was  his  assumption  in  a  world 
where  every  thinker's  circle  must  be  completed  by  an 
assumption  cemented  by  faith.  It  was  an  assumption 
less  thoughtfully,  but  no  less  actively,  made  every  day 
by  every  man. 

Thus  he  had  gone  athwart  the  human  stream,  and 
those  who  noticed  him  had  viewed  him  askance. 
What  they  beheld  was  not  a  propagandum:  it  was 
John  Kendry's  idea  of  how  actually  he  best  might 
make  himself  glad  that  he  had  lived.  If  it  had  been 
a  propagandum,  rather  than  an  example;  if  he  had 
carried  it  about  with  him  to  expound,  instead  of  only 
to  live  by,  the  world  from  Paulter  to  Eastwood  and 
from  Eastwood  to  heights  far  more  exalted  would 
have  let  him  pass  to  his  own  music,  with  a  gathering 
procession  of  proselytes  behind.  The  world  would 
have  felt  secure  in  thinking  to  detect  his  especial  hope 
of  self-aggrandizement. 

Outside  his  windows  the  spirit  of  the  times  and 
the  place  determined  the  noisy  traffic.  For  a  con- 
science, an  aspiration,  a  capability  attuned  to  that 
spirit  one  kind  of  satisfaction  awaited;  and  perhaps 
it  was  a  legitimate  one  in  the  working  out  of  the  evolu- 
tion of  a  race.  But  if  a  man  believed  that  he  had 
gone  ahead  of  that  satisfaction  and  left  a  greater  part 
of  the  rest  of  the  world  behind,  what  was  he  to  do? 


216  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

Was  he  to  sit  and  wait?  Was  he  to  return  and  tell 
of  a  new  horizon  for  those  who  could  not  see  and 
therefore  would  not  and  perhaps  must  be  expected  not 
to  believe  ?  And,  crucially  for  Kendry,  would  enough 
of  the  rest  ever  catch  up,  ever  see?  Perhaps  he  was 
getting  to  the  secret  of  the  human  instinct  for  propa- 
ganda he  did  not  want  to  be  alone ;  he  could  not  main- 
tain his  faith  entirely  alone.  And  yet  his  idea  was 
based  on  the  principle  that  all  faith  must  grow,  not 
out  of  the  ceaseless  repetitions  of  other  men,  but  for 
each  man  out  of  his  own  self-knowledge. 

It  would  have  been  more  fortunate  had  not  loneli- 
ness been  the  marked  note  of  his  enfeebled  condition  in 
his  bachelor  chamber.  He  went  back  to  his  starting 
point,  conceived  in  the  health  and  high  spirits  of  youth ; 
his  good  will  toward  men,  his  general  optimism. 
Whenever  he  had  begun  to  explain  himself  at  his  club, 
with  the  men  he  found  more  congenial,  or — to  go  at 
once  to  the  point — with  Mary  Eastwood,  from  whose 
feminine  heart  he  instinctively  had  expected  under- 
standing, he  never  had  had  the  experience  of  meeting 
an  enthusiasm  that  anticipated  his  point.  If  even 
the  woman  to  whom  he  so  had  committed  himself 
made  him  feel  eccentric,  his  one  escape  appeard  to 
be  to  jump,  like  a  clown,  through  the  paper  disc  of 
his  idea.  If  he  was  wrong  and  the  world  was  right, 
that  disposed  of  the  idea.  If  he  was  right  and  the 
world  was  wrong,  it  demolished  his  optimism,  his 
good-will,  which  again  disposed  of  the  idea.  And  with 


THE    DESERT    OF    DOUBT  217 

the  idea  must  go  his  view  of  the  mode  of  life  most 
satisfying. 

Such  an  alteration  would  carry  with  it  a  strange 
indifference  to  Mary  Eastwood,  thankless  since  it 
brought  him  more  nearly  into  accord  with  her.  It 
seemed  to  urge  him  as  a  prime  consideration  to  look 
out  of  his  window  and  to  value  places,  as  was  Mary's 
habit;  it  made  happiness  more  a  place  than  a  condi- 
tion. When  the  balance  was  cast  between  men  and 
institutions  in  one  civilization  and  another  his  peregri- 
nations showed  him  that  there  was  but  small  variance. 
This,  he  was  bound  to  believe,  favored  his  own  coun- 
try, viewed  at  large.  But,  viewed  from  his  personal 
standpoint,  the  outlook  from  any  window  he  might 
choose  in  his  own  country — once  the  idea  was  gone — 
drew  him  less  than  a  hundred  others  he  could  remem- 
ber. One  went  to  other  lands  for  works  and  mani- 
festations of  more  tempered  order  and  grace  and 
beauty;  satisfactions  of  eye  and  ear  and  mind  that 
stood  ready  to  his  grasp. 

If  he  fled  he  should  suffer  a  certain  danger  of  con- 
tempt. There  would  be  spectators.  They  inevitably 
would  expect  him  to  stay  and  grace  the  arena  of  his 
narrow  experience  with  his  martyred  form.  Though 
they  had  been  ready  to  applaud  the  spectacle,  yet  on 
his  flight  they  would  shrug  and  knowingly  smile.  But 
should  he  stay  for  the  sacrifice  where  no  one  of  the 
onlookers  would  be  willing  to  change  roles  with  him? 
He  should  be  in  contempt  only  of  those  who  could 


218  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

and  would  serve  where  he  had  deserted;  and  of  these 
he  knew  none. 

If  he  stayed  he  saw  nothing  but  to  "  jump  in  " — to 
embrace  the  one  opportunity  of  the  place,  to  be  a 
pioneer,  to  wield  the  axe  in  more  or  less  indifference 
to  the  common  weal ;  and,  as  a  reward,  to  double  and 
triple  a  fortune  already  more  than  sufficient  to  his 
needs. 

He  unsteadily  dressed  himself.  A  meal  braced  his 
nerves,  but  left  him  disinclined  to  move.  He  tele- 
phoned for  his  agent  and  devoted  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon to  his  affairs.  He  imagined  himself  an  old  man 
with  shifting  little  eyes,  sitting  in  a  chair  and  presid- 
ing over  a  fortune  that  never  could  be  large  enough. 
Men  who  had  business  with  him  were  for  the  first 
time  directed  to  this  apartment;  in  his  role  of  ancient 
spider  he  dealt  with  them  as  keenly  as  they  dealt  with 
him.  He  made  a  profitable  day  of  it.  Some  of  them 
recast  their  opinion  of  him,  and  he  was  strengthened 
in  his  own.  Yes,  he  could  play  the  game,  uprightly, 
conforming  to  all  the  rules.  If  already  it  hadn't  been 
fulfilled  in  the  blood  he  couldn't  have  grasped  it  so 
easily,  so  young.  He  saw  the  last  man  out  and 
began  pacing  the  floor,  in  a  sense  of  drifting,  of  ennui, 
of  the  room  having  been  vulgarized. 

"  *  Man  delights  me  not — nor  woman  neither !'  "  he 
laughed,  "  though  one  might  argue  from  this  hair- 
pin ! "  He  tossed  it  into  the  grate.  He  was  bodily 
weary,  but  he  could  no  longer  sit  still;  he  was  men- 


THE    DESERT    OF    DOUBT  219 

tally  weary  but  he  could  see  no  bright  light  ahead.  He 
could  rest  and  there  would  be  a  return  of  power,  but 
there  would  be  no  return  of  inspiration.  He  had  rea- 
soned from  the  vague  and  the  abstract  to  what  had 
seemed  the  practical  and  the  hopeful ;  now  he  was  rea- 
soning back  into  the  desert  of  the  abstract  and  the 
vague.  The  distances  in  that  desert  were  infinite  and 
the  heights  on  the  horizon  were  a  mirage.  The  track- 
less stretches  were  dotted  with  dead  men's  bones. 

He  heard  a  familiar  footstep  in  the  corridor  as  he 
paced  toward  the  door.  It  opened  to  Arthur  Paul- 
ter,  his  cigar  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  his  hat  a 
trifle  on  one  side,  his  eyes  half  closed  against  the 
smoke  through  which  the  deliberate  speech  he  was 
framing 

Kendry  caught  him  and  twisted  his  arm  and 
crashed  his  jowl  against  the  edge  of  the  door  and 
threw  him  on  his  head  into  the  corridor.  He  locked 
the  door  and  tumbled  breathless  into  bed.  In  a  world 
of  uncertainty,  where  philosophy  may  lead  to  mad- 
ness, here  was  a  concrete  fact. 

He  went  to  sleep  without  thinking  and  slept  with- 
out dreaming ;  and  if  for  once  Mary  Eastwood  did  not 
hover  over  him,  neither  did  any  other  figure.  It  was 
true  that  in  his  memory  there  existed  the  picture  of  a 
young  woman  with  amber  hair  and  rich  dark  eye- 
brows and  eyes  in  which  was  all  the  story  of  the 
world.  Her  glance  was  vividly  out  at  the  observer,  as 
if  the  lids  were  about  to  widen  and  the  lips  faintly  to 


220  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

smile  in  a  mixture  of  doubt  and  of  the  upward  reflec- 
tion of  a  wish  from  depths  unfathomed.  The  head 
sat  with  a  fine  balance  between  pride  and  humility. 
It  seemed  to  question  something  of  the  future. 

But  the  picture  was  framed  and  it  hung  along  with 
the  Madonna  and  the  Pyrrhic  Dancers  in  the  dark  of 
his  other  room.  He  might  have  asked  whether  the 
picture  and  the  idea  had  been  one. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

A   SPRIG  OF   CEANOTHUS 

ETHEL  MARK  was  intent  upon  the  narrower  view  to 
the  gate  at  the  end  of  the  hedge ;  but  by  a  turn  of  her 
head  she  could  see,  through  a  tangle  of  honey-suckle 
and  passion  vine  between  the  veranda  posts,  the  sum- 
mit of  the  mountain  through  the  trees  to  the  north; 
and  to  the  south,  over  a  surface  of  tree  tops,  the  bay 
of  San  Francisco  with  its  mountains,  and  a  part  of  the 
city.  The  cottage  Paulter  and  her  mother  had  seized, 
in  the  emergency  they  thought  they  realized,  the  girl 
willingly  had  gone  to.  It  was  on  the  side  of  a  spur 
of  the  mountain,  hidden  by  redwoods  and  by  a  dense 
fringe,  along  the  road  above,  of  live  oak  and  scrub 
oak  and  ceanothus,  interspersed  with  madronos  and 
bays.  The  ground  fell  away  steeply  to  a  green  canon 
depth.  The  veranda  hung  out  over  a  lower  story 
brushed  by  the  foliage.  A  shingled  roof  curved  down 
over  it  to  the  east.  The  redwoods  covered  the  dark- 
ened intervals  beneath  them  with  a  layer  of  cast-off 
branchlets,  enduring  like  the  needles  of  a  pine  forest 
and  of  similar  color ;  through  which  only  tender  annu- 
als pushed,  whose  blossoms  looked  up  from  thin  stalks 
to  the  girl  who  sat  on  the  coping  of  the  veranda.  Ex- 

221 


222  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

cept  for  the  brilliant  roses,  climbing  to  the  chimney  on 
the  sunnier  side,  the  natural  woods  and  the  curve  of 
the  roof  and  the  deep  green  of  the  coni ferae  gave  an 
effect  that  was  Japanese,  reflective  and  calm.  The 
long,  gradual  spring  was  at  the  full ;  the  scent  of  bay 
buds  mingled  with  that  of  the  honey-suckle.  The  air 
was  dry  and  clean,  cool  to  the  skin  and  warm  to  the 
blood.  The  downward  reflection  of  a  setting  sun 
illuminated  the  girl's  hair;  her  eyes  responded  to 
the  blue  of  the  evening  horizon.  They  widened  at  the 
sound  of  light  feet  on  the  winding  path  beyond  the 
gate. 

"  You're  dying  to  know ! "  said  Georgiana.  She 
had  no  reason  to  hurry,  unless  it  was  an  excitement 
greater  than  she  encountered  in  Miss  Marr.  "  Of 
course  when  I  didn't  turn  up  at  the  ferry  last  night 
you  thought  the  worst  had  come!  You  must  have 
been  a  pathetic  figure  in  the  waiting-room !  " 

"  I  waited,"  Ethel  said,  after  an  instant's  pause. 
"One  boat  didn't  matter.  I  can  see  that  he's  not 
badly  off.  Thank  you !  I'll  tell  mother  you  are  here." 

"  But  you  don't  want  to  hear  all  about  it  ?  "  Geor- 
giana sat  up,  dressed  in  her  blue  silk  gown  and  her 
yellow  shoes.  "After  you  took  so  much  trouble  to 
find  me?  After  you  waited  an  hour  and  three-quar- 
ters to  hear?  I  wish  you  had  been  there! "  she  fer- 
vently said,  through  her  teeth.  "  But — I  gave  you  all 
the  credit." 

"  I  hoped  you  wouldn't  find  it  necesary  to  speak  of 


A    SPRIG    OF   CEANOTHUS  223 

me,"  Ethel  said,  with  a  little  fold  in  her  forehead. 
"  It  seemed  indicated  for  me  to  act  in  some  way ;  but 
I  had  only  casually  to  do  with  it.  You've  told  me  all 
there  is  to  tell."  Miss  Baine  sent  up  an  intelligent 
smile. 

"  Have  I  ?  "  she  said.  "  Some  other  girl  will  have 
to  marry  him  to  know  him  as  well  as  I  did  in  those 
few  minutes — when  I  foolishly  ran  back  to  him,  early 
this  morning."  She  glanced  an  emphasis.  "I  saw 
him  as  he  is! "  Ethel's  want  of  receptiveness  became 
trying  to  her.  "  You've  already  heard  from  him ! " 
Georgiana  shot  a  finger  at  her. 

"  No,"  the  girl  said.  "  I  was  wondering  whether 
you  wished  me  to  think  your  experience  was  disagree- 
able." 

"  It  wouldn't  have  been  agreeable  to  you! "  Geor- 
giana said,  with  her  giggle,  which  was  not  an  expres- 
sion of  merriment.  She  made  an  impressive  pause. 
"  When  they're  on  their  backs ;  when  they're  done  up, 
as  he  was,  they  don't  care  for  us!"  she  delivered. 
"  Listen :  he  drove  me  out  of  his  rooms !  " 

"What  for?"  The  girl's  eyes  opened  "What 
had  you  done  ?  " 

"What  had  7  done?"  Georgiana  sat  back.  "I 
had  been  a  woman.  I  had  tried  to  make  him  comfort- 
able. You'd  have  thought  I  was  his  old  maid  aunt! 
My  dear,  you'd  better  find  it  out ;  when  they're  them- 
selves, when  they  don't  want  you  as  a  woman,  they 
don't  want  you  at  all !  And  he  was  himself !  "  The 


224  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

girl  stared.  From  a  window  to  which  she  glanced  cer- 
tain sounds,  as  if  from  a  kitchen,  had  ceased. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  quite  follow,"  Ethel  said. 
"  But  it's  no  matter." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  go  into  it  deeper,  with  so  many  young 
flowers  about  ?  "  Georgiana  giggled.  "  I  only  wanted 
you  to  know,  considering  the  impression  my  cousin 
has  made  on  you." 

"  To  know  what  ? "  the  girl  said,  without  Geor- 
giana's  facial  play.  Georgiana  gasped;  then  she  al- 
lowed an  indulgent  smile. 

"  To  know,  my  dear,"  she  said,  with  opened  hands, 
"that,  having  treated  me  so  abominably  he  might  be 
capable  of  treating  you  abominably !  " 

"That  doesn't  follow,"  Ethel  brought  up.  Geor- 
giana again  fluctuated. 

"  A  very  important  thing  follows  from  what  you 
say !  "  she  archly  nodded.  "  It's  no  use  for  one  woman 
to  try  to  conceal  from  another  that  she's  in  love  with 
a  man ! "  Ethel  forsook  her  chair  for  the  less  con- 
fined coping  of  the  veranda. 

"  If  she  wishes  to  conceal  it  from  me,"  Ethel  leaned 
against  the  post,  "  she  has  only  to  keep  still  about 
him."  Georgiana  drove  off  the  idea  with  both  hands. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  imply  that  I'm  thinking  about 
him !  "  she  said.  "  Oh,  no !  "  she  roundly  voiced.  "  I 
don't  believe  in  the  marriage  of  cousins ;  I  have  heard 
too  much  alienist  talk  in  my  little  time."  Miss  Marr, 
straighter  against  the  post,  seemed  receding  from  her. 


A    SPRIG    OF    CEANOTHUS  225 

"  Of  course,  it's  hard  to  play  the  friend  in  a  matter 
like  this;  but  one  owes  it  to  one's  conscience  to  try." 
Georgiana  put  herself  on  grounds  for  complacency. 
Ethel  refused  the  generalization. 

"  If  you  quite  forget  my  own  part  in  the  episode  it 
will  be  more  consistent  with  my  knowing  Mr.  Kendry 
so  slightly/'  she  said.  Georgiana  hove  a  deep  sigh; 
her  milky  cheeks  became  overspread  with  color. 

"  I'll  try  to  forget  it  on  my  way  home/'  she  came  to 
her  feet.  "  Your  roses  are  beautiful  in  the  twilight!" 
She  appealed  to  the  faint  spots  of  color  against  the 
shingles.  Ethel  went  to  pluck  a  rose  for  her;  Geor- 
giana used  the  opportunity  to  run  ahead  and  open  the 
gate.  "  Of  course  you'll  have  his  version  of  it !  "  she 
shortly  giggled.  Ethel  held  out  the  long  stem  of  the 
rose  to  her.  "  No,  thanks !  "  Georgiana  said  politely. 
"  He  wasn't  so  dreadfully  grateful  to  you,  you  know." 

The  girl  came  back,  listening  to  the  retreating  steps. 
When  they  were  gone  her  shoulders  drew  a  little  to- 
gether. Her  mother,  waiting  in  the  doorway,  mixed 
her  breathing  with  her  words. 

"  Arthur  told  you  the  truth  about  him,"  she  said ; 
"  and  that  only  made  you  hate  Arthur  more !  "  The 
girl  laid  gentle  hands  on  her  mother's  shoulders. 

"  Why  do  you  still  fuss  about  Mr.  Kendry,  when 
I  haven't  the  least  intention  of  ever  seeing  him,  dear 
mother  ?  Why  don't  you  respect  me  more  ?  "  Violet 
Marr  twisted  her  hands  in  her  apron. 

"You've    heard    what    she    thinks    of    him,"   she 


226  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

laughed.  "  She  knows  a  thing  or  two."  The  girl 
was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  She's  not  nice,  mother."  Violet  Marr  drew  in  her 
nostrils. 

"  And  Arthur,  me — anyone  who  says  a  word  against 
him,  you "  The  girl  took  her  hand. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  Mr.  Kendry  is  the  first  man 
I  have  ever  met;  the  first  one  I  ever  saw  who  thinks 
about  the  things  I  value?  Is  it  extraordinary  that  he 
should  interest  me?"  she  richly  coaxed.  "Because 
he  interests  me,  just  because  I  admire  him,  must  I 
be  waiting  for  him  to  come  and — that  hideous  phrase : 
'  make '  love  to  me?  Now,  mother !  " 

The  other  nervously  laughed  and  pulled  herself 
away.  "  You're  not  going  to  blarney  me !  You've 
done  that  before ;  you  know  I'm  weakly  influenced  by 
my  affections.  You  don't  live  our  life.  Arthur  is 
much  more  filial  to  me  than  you  are,"  she  breathed. 
"  You're  spending  all  your  money  on  clothes ;  you  want 
to  look  presentable  in  Mr.  Kendry's  kind  of  society. 
In  two  years  you  won't  look  presentable  in  any  society. 
Even  the  way  you  speak  gets  farther  and  farther  away 
from  ours.  You  sit  at  the  table  and  think  how  you 
disagree  with  us.  You're  ashamed  of  us;  it's  hate- 
ful! I  won't  have  you  cry!  "  her  voice  rose.  "  You 
never  have  cried  and  you  shan't  begin  now;  I  won't 
be  influenced  by  it ! "  she  broke. 

The  girl  drew  herself  up.  "  No,  I  won't  cry — not 
for  pain,"  she  said.  "  But  you'd  better  foresee  that 


A    SPRIG   OF   CEANOTHUS  227 

we  must  find  some  way  out  of  this.  I  can't  go  on 
living  in  the  same  house  with  Arthur  Paulter.  We 
at  least  had  the  house  on  the  Hill  to  ourselves.  You 
must  find  a  solution."  Violet  Marr  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  know !  You  have  no  heart ;  you  mean  you'll  go 
away.  You're  not  going  to  throw  yourself  on  the 
world ;  we  won't  let  you." 

"  There's  somebody  coming,  mother."  The  girl's 
voice  was  uneven.  "  Please  be  more  quiet !  " 

A  heavily-built  Chinaman  ambled  down  the  path 
with  a  basket  on  his  shoulder.  He  wore  the  flapping 
blue  cotton  trousers  and  the  blue  tunic  associated  with 
laundrymen.  He  sang  a  cheerful,  "  How  do,  Missy 
Marr ! "  then  with  his  back  turned  to  them  he  began 
laying  out  the  laundry  on  a  settee,  in  the  gloom  of  the 
veranda.  Her  mother  withdrew  into  the  house ;  Ethel 
strolled  up  the  path  and  out  onto  the  road.  Presently 
Chan  Kow  caught  up  with  her. 

"  I  told  you  Jack  Kendry  mebbe  die,  down  that 
hole?  "he  said. 

"  It  was  true,"  the  girl  said.  "  I  sent  Mr.  Paulter. 
He  rescued  them." 

"  Paulter!  Ho!  "  Chan  Kow  observed.  He  medi- 
tated. "He  like  go  do  that?" 

"  He  did  it  for  me,"  said  Ethel. 

"  Ho !  "  Chan  Kow  prolonged  it.  "  How  much  cost 
you  that  ?  "  He  turned  to  her.  They  were  on  the  top 
of  the  ridge.  He  could  not  see  her  face  for  the  gloom 
made  by  the  gnarled  oak  branches. 


228  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

"  I  made  him  see  that  it  was  his  human  duty,"  the 
girl  said.  Chan  Kow  grunted. 

"  I  told  you  better  you  go  see  my  Jack — better  you 
sick  man  care,"  he  tried  to  express  it. 

"  I  couldn't  go  myself,"  she  said.  "  I  sent  some 
one  else.  He's  not  in  danger." 

"  Ho ! "  Chan  Kow  had  said  again,  at  the  first  part 
of  her  speech.  After  a  few  yards  he  laughed  to  her : 

"  Missy  Marr,  you  think  now  I  don't  lie?  " 

"  I  believe  in  you  now,"  she  promptly  said.  "  You 
were  very  fine.  You  wanted  to  save  your  friend.  I 
am  glad  I  know  you."  Chan  Kow  gurgled. 

"  Hah !  "  he  observed.     "  We  like  that  funny  Jack." 

"  It's  a  strange  coincidence  that  we  both  should 
know  him,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  I  should  never  hear 
anything  about  him  again.  Have  I  done  something 
good  for  him  ? "  she  allowed  herself,  with  a  little 
laugh.  Chan  Kow  made  a  suspense  before  the  small 
acknowledgment  she  wanted. 

"  Much  more  yet,"  he  mysteriously  said.  "  Our 

Jack !  "  Ethel  broke  a  branch  of  ceanothus  that 

brushed  her  face.  She  touched  its  sweet  lilac-like 
bloom  to  her  lips. 

"  Much  more  ?"  she  presently  echoed. 

"That  flower,"  said  Chan  Kow,  "you  give  me? 
Thanks  you!  S'pose  no  sun — that  plant  not  make 
any  pretty,  any  flower  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  gravely  looked  to  him.  Chan  Kow 
stopped  at  the  parting  of  the  roads. 


A    SPRIG    OF    CEANOTHUS  229 

"All  same  very  nishee  leddy — all  same  you.  No 
sun — no  flower !  That  Jack — suppose  how  he  see  you, 
when  you  hide?  You — "  he  drew  it  out;  "  you  make 
a  long — plenty  long,  think!  Good-by.  Much  more 
yet!  Owrjack!" 

She  tripped  singing  down  the  path  and  ran  into  the 
lamplight  where  her  mother  looked  up  with  a  tear- 
stained  face. 

"  Arthur  has  telephoned.  He  won't  be  home  to- 
night," her  mother  said. 

"  He'll  be  home  to-morrow  night,"  the  girl  said 
comfortably.  She  ate  with  an  occasional  cheerful 
remark;  the  mother  answered  in  a  monosyllable. 
Afterward  Ethel  returned  to  the  veranda  and  looked 
through  the  darkness  to  the  lights  of  the  city. 

"  He  wanted  to  do  something  for  me,"  she  told  her- 
self, "  and  he  couldn't  find  a  way  to  it.  But  I've  done 
something  for  him.  He'll  be  very  distinguished  some 
day.  It  was  beautiful  to  know  him." 

She  sighed  and  fell  to  thinking  of  what  the  laundry- 
man  had  said,  strange  and  wise  old  man.  The  day 
after  to-morrow  was  the  day  Mr.  Kendry  had  asked 
her  to  meet  him  on  the  mountain.  It  was  the  one 
day  when  she  could  be  sure,  now  that  he  had  her 
letter,  that  he  would  not  be  there. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

A   CHANCE  TO  DRIFT 

KENDRY  met  Mrs.  Eastwood  at  her  threshold. 
"  You're  badly  off,"  she  said  at  once,  inspecting  him. 
"  Mary's  the  last  one  to  soothe  you.  But  perhaps 
you'd  better  go  in  and  find  that  out." 

"  If  you  want  the  truth,  I  should  be  happiest  bowl- 
ing along  with  you."  Kendry  pointed  to  her  car- 
riage. She  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  shall  not  snatch  you  away.  You  must  rescue 
yourself.  If  you  can  calmly  get  acquainted  with 
Mary " 

"  Just  my  mood,"  said  Kendry.  "  I  feel  very  old — 
old  enough  to  sit  at  her  feet  and  wonder  whether  I'm 
good  for  her."  Mrs.  Eastwood  turned  with  her 
latch-key. 

"  You  shouldn't  be  kept  waiting  for  a  moment, 
then,'"  she  said.  "  But  it's  a  pity  you're  sane  only 
when  you're  ill,  boy!  Now,  have  I  been  brutally 
frank  ?  "  Kendry  pressed  her  hand. 

"  You'll  always  be  kind,  whatever  happens,"  he 
said.  Her  brows  went  up. 

"  Hurry,  you're  weakening !  "     She  left  him. 

Some  lively  discussion  of  a  financial  matter  ceased 
230 


A    CHANCE    TO    DRIFT  231 

at  his  entrance.  The  big  room  had  been  warmed  and 
beautified  by  the  withdrawal  of  Mary's  casts.  Henry 
lay  in  an  arm-chair,  with  one  foot  on  a  stool.  He  was 
pale  and  lowering,  despite  the  bottle  at  his  side. 

"  You  look  as  if  a  smile  would  crack  off  a  piece 
of  your  face,"  Kendry  observed. 

"Have  you  told  Miss  Marr  about  it?"  said  East- 
wood. 

"  She's  moved  away.  I  don't  know  where."  Ken- 
dry  lowered  himself  into  a  chair. 

"  Hal  hopes  you  won't  tell  her  that  this  has  brought 
on  his  first  attack  of  gout,"  Mary  said.  "  I'm  sure 
she  wouldn't  like  gout." 

"Gout?  This  is  a  cerebral  affection."  Eastwood 
contemplated  his  leg.  "  My  brain  slipped  down  into 
my  foot  the  night  I  took  your  lead,  Jack  Kendry. 
Never  again ! "  Kendry  felt  himself  under  Mary's 
measuring  eye. 

"  I  think  your  nurse  was  a  dunce,"  she  said.  "  She 
told  our  man  you  didn't  need  more  sympathy  than  you 
could  pay  for.  You  look  horrible.  Buck  up !  "  She 
tossed  him  a  cushion. 

"  You'll  split  a  seam,"  her  brother  glanced  askance 
at  her.  She  had  appeared  to  yield  to  an  impulse. 
The  crimson  silk  of  Kendry's  other  visit  had  left 
its  glow  with  her.  What  she  wore  made  her  look 
rounder,  warmer.  Kendry's  appreciation  was  less 
than  a  thrill.  For  a  moment  he  was  facing  her  with- 
out thought  of  the  future. 


232  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

"  I'm  a  spook,"  he  apologized,  against  the  cushion. 

"And  I  really  think  mother  and  I  must  take  you 
in  charge,"  Mary  nodded.  "  It's  an  excellent  month 
for  the  Mediterranean." 

"  Venice  ?  "  Kendry  conversed. 

"  Really  ?  "  Mary  brightened.  "  Have  you  jumped 
back  and  *  scratched  them  in  again  ? '  Venice  and  a 
gondola  with  private  liveries,  and  live  happily  ever 
afterward!  We  can  save  half  our  expenses  by  in- 
viting each  other  to  dinner  on  alternate  nights !  "  Her 
brother  whistled. 

"  Rope  him !  "  he  said.     "  You've  run  him  down !  " 

"  You'll  calmly  recline  and  remember  this  '  Idea ' 
as  a  troubled  dream."  Mary  presided  over  him.  "  If 
you  really  mean  to  go  I  shall  lose  a  night's  sleep." 
Eastwood  whistled  louder. 

"  Throw  him  and  brand  him !  "  he  said.  "  Venice 
— for  a  live  man,  an  American " 

"  Do  pronounce  the  *  r '  in  your  native  land ! "  his 
sister  said. 

"  Why,  I've  got  a  photograph  of  The  Grand  Canal 
— that's  an  antidote  for  me ! "  Eastwood  swelled. 
"  Five  minutes  to  get  across  the  street,  even  after 
you've  caught  a  sampan ! " 

"  Jack  has  a  soul,"  his  sister  explained. 

"  That  may  compliment  him,  but  it's  no  slur  on  me," 
said  her  brother.  "  The  biggest  difference  in  men  is 
women's  prejudices  about  them.  I've  had  Kendry 's 
disease ;  it  merely  didn't  get  all  over  me.  He  wants  to 


A    CHANCE    TO    DRIFT  233 

invent  a  new  religion,  a  new  system  of  morals,  poli- 
tics, love-making." 

"A  new  doughnut,  with  the  hole  outside,"  Kendry 
closed  his  eyes. 

"You  take  my  advice,  young  feller;  life  is  short 
and  prayer  won't  preserve  eggs.  Leave  all  this  trou- 
ble at  home  and  make  a  high  dive  into  an  American 
crowd;  you'll  come  out  like  a  needle  from  an  emery 
bag;  and  we'll  all  have  a  drink!  "Mary  suffered. 

"  Your  brother  was  a  great  loss  to  the  pulpit,"  Ken- 
dry  sighed. 

"  He  comes  to  scoff  and  stays  to  bray,"  Mary  said. 
"  I'm  sure  it's  very  creditable  to  you  to  have  thought 
those  altruistic  things,  or  what  you  like  to  have  them 
called.  It's  rather  blinded  you  to  my  having  gone 
through  a  phase,  too,  all  this  while.  I,  too,  have 
emerged.  Do  you  guess  ? "  Kendry  looked  at  the 
Donatello  boy. 

"  You've  given  up  modeling?  " 

"  Bull's-eye !  "  said  Eastwood.  "  She  chased  plastic 
art  around  the  stump  till  it  caught  up  behind  her." 

"  I'm  not  ashamed  to  say  that  it  put  me  out  of  sym- 
pathy with  Jack  for  a  while.  I'm  glad  to  be  back 
from  the  skies,"  his  sister  pronounced.  "  And  I'm 
glad  Jack  is  back  from  the  skies." 

"  And  I'm  glad  my  brain  is  back  from  my  foot," 
said  Eastwood.  "  I  never  thought  my  little  sister 
with  the  cold  nose  would  embarrass  me  by  tying  rib- 
bons on  somebody  in  my  presence.  This  is  worse 


234  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

than  modeling  clay  diaphragms!  Are  you  going  to 
Venice,  so's  to  be  with  mother?  You  look  dead,  to 
me !  "  he  hailed  Kendry. 

"  I  couldn't  honestly  look  alive,"  said  Kendry. 
"  I'm  expiring  by  devolution.  I'm  sliding  back  to- 
ward the  ape.  I  suppose  our  simplest  ideas  were  once 
vague  and  fearsome  in  the  mind  of  the  ape.  Even 
the  idea  of  money  must  have  hurt  the  first  monkey 
that  conceived  it ;  he  had  to  hammer  it  into  reality  by 
experiment  and  patience  and  a  foolish  amount  of  faith. 
I  rather  wish  he  hadn't  monkeyed  with  it.  I'm  con- 
sidering whether  all  that's  new  and  worth  while  in  the 
mind  of  man  doesn't  lie  in  the  region  of  the  vague  and 
hard  to  grasp, — or  whether  all  that's  vague  and  hard 
to  grasp,"  he  sighed,  "  isn't  a  waste  of  cerebral  mud !  " 
he  irreverently  finished. 

Mary  clapped  her  hands.  The  act  jarred  a  little 
on  his  picture  of  her. 

"  And  that's  Jack's  confession,"  she  went  on  with 
her  spontaneity.  "  And  we'll  begin  all  over  again !  " 

She  took  him  home  in  the  electric  cab.  It  was  com- 
fortable, and  Mary,  if  she  did  not  stimulate  his  atten- 
tion, soothed  his  spirit. 

"  Come  up  as  soon  as  you  like ;  we'll  arrange  trains 
and  steamers,"  she  nodded.  Seen  through  the  win- 
dow of  a  cab  hers  was  a  perfection  of  externals ;  if  she 
was  not  like  an  ideal  princess  she  was  like  an  actual 
one,  Kendry  reflected,  in  his  mood  for  realities. 

A  box  had  arrived  by  express.     It  contained  Chan 


A    CHANCE    TO   DRIFT  235 

Kow's  card,  and  a  sprig  of  ceanothus.  It  suggested 
that  Chan  Kow  had  not  left  the  state ;  and  it  suggested 
the  mountain.  The  latter  was  the  more  pleasant  sug- 
gestion. He  had  planned  to  climb  the  mountain  some 
day  soon.  He  fell  to  wondering  how  much  psychic 
connection  there  had  been  between  the  idea  and — the 
eyes.  To-morrow  was  a  day  when  Miss  Marr  had 
written  that  she  would  not  be  there.  He  could  lie 
in  that  same  spot,  spiritually  even  more  neutral  than 
when  he  had  awakened  in  her  presence.  He  could 
begin  all  over  again,  without  the  psychic  element  in- 
troduced by  her. 


CHAPTER    XX 

AN    IMPORTANT    PROMISE 

THERE)  was  the  dry,  cool  air,  which  even  had  they  been 
ten  years  older  would  have  been  intoxicating  to  them. 
There  was  the  sun  just  dazzling  through  drifts  of 
brilliant  mist;  there  was  the  Bay,  glinting  with  the 
sunlight  and  doubling  the  interrupted  azure  of  the 
sky.  There  was  all  the  long  story  of  the  distant  hills, 
the  brightened  verdure,  the  pointed  trees.  The  birds 
punctuated  it  with  mites  of  color  and  lines  of  flight 
and  the  music  of  a  joyous  morning. 

The  two  children  had  held  up  their  faces  to  the 
passing  rain.  That  had  no  whit  lessened  the  crisp- 
ness  of  the  air.  The  two  laughed.  A  foolish  cus- 
tom made  it  seem  necessary  to  talk.  They  could  have 
kept  silence,  looking  to  the  far  horizon,  side  by  side, 
until  the  silence  would  have  spoken  to  them. 

"  If  it  had  rained  that  first  day,"  Kendry  said, 
"  there  wouldn't  have  been  a  grass  fire,  and  I  shouldn't 
have  rushed  toward  the  smoke,  and  I  shouldn't  have 
met  you ! "  She  shook  the  drops  from  her  hair.  It 
was  she  who  leaned  against  a  manzanita,  from  a  rock ; 
Kendry  weighed  on  the  cypress  bough. 

"You'd  have  saved  twice  risking  your  life,"  Ethel 
236 


AN   IMPORTANT   PROMISE  237 

nodded.  She  glanced  at  the  approaches,  reminiscence 
shading  her. 

"And  missed  you!"  he  made  more  emphasis. 
"  Look !  "  he  held  her  eye :  "  please  as  you  sit  there 
behave  as  frankly  and  openly  as  I  did.  Remember  my 
speech  about  myself — if  you  can!  Then  parallel  it 
and  tell  me  all  the  things  about  you  that  I  don't 
know."  She  yielded  gracefully. 

"I'm  twenty  years  old.  I  was  born  not  very  far 
from  this  mountain.  I  haven't  travelled  abroad.  I 
have  searched  for  my  '  perspective '  in  places  like  this, 
on  this  mountain.  I,  too,  am  very  rich.  My  capital 
is  my  faultless  health.  And — that's  all ! "  it  gave  her 
pleasure  to  seem  to  discover.  Kendry  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  all !  "  She  had  been  transformed,  to  the  plain 
duty  of  a  skillful  tailor  to  tell  nothing  but  the  truth. 
Now  the  lines  of  her  shoulders  kept  on  through  others 
that  were  fair  to  the  arch  of  her  foot.  "  More!  "  Ken- 
dry  commanded :  "  about  your  perspective ;  have  you 
found  it?  "  She  bowed.  Her  own  glance  did  not  stray 
from  his  mouth.  "  Did  it  come  hard  ?  "  Kendry  ad- 
mired the  lacing  of  her  boots. 

"  Yes,"  she  studied  his  forehead.  Their  conversa- 
tion did  not  seem  their  main  preoccupation. 

"  What  was  the  trouble  in  your  case  ? "  Kendry 
somewhat  absently  said.  She  became  more  intro- 
spective. 

"  Not  knowing  people.  Not  knowing  where  books 
left  off  and  people  began — or  people  left  off  and  books 


238  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

began.  If  the  mountain  had  been  a  little  smaller  I 
should  have  grown  morbid.  I  was  afraid  that  I  was 
too  imaginary  a  person,  not  equal  to  real  living.  While 
you  lay  here  so  long  I  had  decided  that  when  you 
spoke — if  you  ever  did — there  were  some  things  you 
ought  to  say.  When  you  did  say  them  you  frightened 
me;  it  seemed  too  satisfactory.  Because,  if  there  was 
one  other  person  who  really  thought  in  the  same  terms 
that  I  did,  then  I  knew  there  must  be  a  good  number 
more,  scattered  about.  It  made  the  world  so  much 
more  homelike.  Now  you  know  why  I  treated  you 
with  suspicion."  Kendry  drew  a  breath  scented  with 
the  sun's  first  toll  from  the  weeds. 

"When  did  you  cease  to  treat  me  with  suspicion?  " 
He  watched  a  shred  of  mist  caught  in  a  lonely  tree 
top  above  a  bowlder.  Her  long  pause  brought  him 
back  to  her. 

"  When  I  became  convinced  that  you  intended  to 
devote  your  life  unchangingly  to  the  idea,"  she  said. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  struck  one  clear  note  on  a  warn- 
ing bell.  He  could  not  tell  if  there  was  accusation  in 
her  face. 

"  But  we're  getting  away  from  you,"  he  sought  to 
get  away  from  himself.  "  What  is  your  perspective  ?  " 
Again  her  pause  gave  him  anxiety.  He  had  buoy- 
antly ridden  above  the  memory  of  his  lonely  hours  in 
his  room.  Her  tone  was  of  certainty,  unfevered,  un- 
qualified : 

"  '  To  live  as  a  conscious  part  of  the  whole  Continu- 


AN   IMPORTANT    PROMISE  239 

ous  Performance.'  "  she  quoted  him.  He  stared.  She 
nodded.  "  I  mean — the  idea." 

His  visible  hesitancy  made  her  smile.  "  Shall  you 
be  jealous  if  I  say  that  I  had  come  to  the  idea  in  my 
realm,  just  as  you  have  come  to  it  in  yours  ?  "  she 
looked  up  to  him. 

The  spontaneous  word  by  which  he  might  have  been 
expected  to  welcome  her  to  the  region  of  his  dearest 
thought  was  stopped  at  the  veil  of  his  self -conscious- 
ness. If  she  missed  the  welcome  he  saw  nothing  to 
show  that  she  had  expected  it.  If  she  had  not  expected 
it  she  already  had  divined  the  turmoil  of  his  doubt 
about  it — from  which  he  had  sought  escape  by  fleeing 
to  the  mountain. 

He  saw  himself  returning  to  that  turmoil  as  a  comet 
flying  toward  the  sun.  He  snapped  a  twig  from  the 
cypress. 

" '  How  shall  you  begin  ? '  '  he  quoted  her  again, 
to  fight  the  inquiry  from  himself. 

" '  On  the  very  nearest  thing  that  needs  me,' "  she 
promptly  quoted  back,  with  still  fingers.  She  was 
examining  him  so  mildly  but  so  evidently  with  her 
mind  rather  than  with  her  heart  that  he  felt  the  indict- 
ment completed.  She  divined  and  she  condemned.  It 
brought  their  affinity  to  a  parting  of  the  ways.  In  her 
only  unchangeable  devotion  to  her  principle  shone; 
if  she  had  given  herself  to  the  idea  he  never  should  be 
able  to  detach  her  from  it.  He  tried. 

"  When  you  find  yourself  alone  with  the  idea,  against 


240  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

the  grinning  world ;  when  you're  thrown  down  and  de- 
feated, and  when  the  only  wise,  sane  way  seems  to 
be  the  obvious,  easiest  way,  how  can  you  be  sure  that 
you  won't  break  down,  and  call  it  youth  and  idealism, 
and  smile  back  at  it  ?  "  he  suffered  against  her  look  of 
steadfastness. 

He  met  no  reproach  across  the  distance  that  was 
widening  between  them  on  so  bright  a  day.  "  Because 
I've  known  defeat  and  loneliness  all  my  life,"  said 
Ethel  Marr.  "  With  only  a  little  evidence  that  I'm 
not  quite  alone,  I  can  go  on."  It  seemed  to  leave  him 
lingering  at  the  cross-roads;  and  she  seemed  to  wish 
to  sweeten  their  parting.  "  To  have  known  that  the 
idea  came  to  one  who  did  smile  back  on  it  would  be 
almost  enough,"  she  said.  "  One  must  not  be  senti- 
mental." 

"  Why  do  you  patently  feel  that  I  am  smiling  back 
at  it ! "  Kendry  burst  from  his  reserve.  Her  eyes 
widened  in  a  way  that  carried  him  back  through  all  his 
knowledge  of  her. 

"  One  can't  help  seeing  that  without  something  like 
the  idea,  or  else  without  wanting  to  grow  richer,  this 
part  of  the  world  isn't  a  happy  hunting  ground.  All 
your  friends  either  accept  the  spirit  of  the  place,  or 
they  go,"  she  said. 

"  But  I  hadn't  announced  it ;  I  hadn't  decided  it.  I'm 
here!" 

"  And  you  shouldn't  be,"  she  went  clearly  on. 
"  That  it  has  occurred  to  you  to  go  is  reason  enough. 


AN   IMPORTANT   PROMISE  241 

And  you'll  regain  your  color  and  your  strength;  and 
you'll  find  it  much  more  agreeable  living  abroad  and 
wondering  whether  you  ought  not  to  be  here  than 
living  here  and  wondering  whether  you  wouldn't  be 
better  off  abroad."  Convent  walls  seemed  to  be  hedg- 
ing her  detachment  in.  Kendry  hammered  at  them. 

"  You  mean  that  if  I've  doubted  the  idea  I'm  a 
doubter  in  the  blood;  and  that  I'm  not  worthy  of  it, 
and  of  the  mountain,  and  of  communion  with  you. 
That's  a  little  more  than  I  deserve ! "  The  sun  gave 
her  no  frown,  shining  in  her  face. 

"  Couldn't  you  throw  my  comfort  into  the  balance 
and  make  that  the  small  deciding  weight  ?  "  she  leaned 
forward.  "  You  have  the  world ;  I  have  only  the 
mountain.  Couldn't  you  consider  leaving  me  the 
mountain — to  crown  our  little  history  here?"  He 
flushed  with  the  petulance  that  reproved  him  while  he 
spoke. 

"  The  idea  isn't  a  deity,  a  thing  to  be  scolded  by — 
that's  the  advantage!  One  invented  it  for  one's  self, 
out  of  one's  self.  If  I  did  go  away  I  shouldn't  leave 
something  frowning  behind  me — I  shouldn't  deserve 
your  contempt!"  he  finished,  feeling  the  contrary. 

The  idea  looked  at  him  out  of  her  deep  blue  eyes. 
The  white  mist  had  huddled  away  to  the  horizon.  The 
song  of  the  mating  birds  proved  the  stillness  of  the 
miles.  In  such  a  setting  moments  could  not  but  seem 
precious. 

"  There  couldn't  possibly  be  anything  harsh  about 


242  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

it,"  she  gently  answered.  "  It's  only  our  views  that 
are  meeting  each  other,"  she  left  the  rest  for  him 
to  fill. 

"  But  I  do  find  it  harsh.  I've  fallen  from  your 
esteem.  I  might  go  to  Venice  or  I  might  go  to  Tim- 
buctoo !  It's  because  you  can't  know  all  the  situation 
with  me " 

"  It  isn't  hard  to  guess,"  she  seemed  not  to  invite  his 
confidence. 

"  But  you're  taking  too  much  for  granted,"  he  pro- 
nounced. "  Because  my  judgment  hesitates  it  means 
that  I  stand  still,  not  that  I  move  in  the  direction 
you'd  think  less  of  me  for  taking.  It's  Mary  East- 
wood; I've  admired  her — long — much;  you  saw  that. 
But  with  the  idea  she  finds  me  eccentric,  amusing ;  and 
without  it  she  invites  me  to  Venice,  with  her  mother. 
If  I  doubt  the  idea  I  equally  doubt  going  to  Venice. 
You  are  judging  me " 

"For  doubting?"  she  smiled.  She  rose.  It  was 
as  if  she  never  could  be  angry  with  him.  "  You  must 
not  imagine  that  I've  been  trying  to  convert  you  back 
to  your  self,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  see  that  I'm  not  bound  to  Mary  East- 
wood— that  I  haven't  decided  to  forsake  the  idea?" 
he  tried  to  hold  her.  She  turned  to  him  with  her  first 
coldness,  moving  off. 

"  One  who  doubts  both  had  best  forsake  both,"  she 
said. 

She  went  to  where  she  could  see  the  slopes  over 


AN    IMPORTANT    PROMISE  243 

which  the  trail  ascended  from  the  village  at  the  base 
of  the  mountain. 

"  It's  my  bad  balance  between  speculation  and  in- 
stinct," he  presently  came  up  to  her,  speaking  more 
quietly.  "  If  I  should  get  the  true  balance  I  still 
might  become  presentable  in  your  eyes."  It  did  not 
seem  to  pierce  her  close  intentness  on  the  slopes  be- 
yond. He  followed  in  her  steps. 

She  was  not  happy,  he  told  himself,  with  satisfac- 
tion. She  had  not  justified  herself,  and  she  still  was 
an  object  for  generous  sympathy.  She  condemned 
him  and  it  was  wrong  of  her.  The  end  was  not  yet; 
if  the  mountain  had  not  sustained  his  spirits  it  had 
brought  up  his  will.  He  would  push  on  till  he 
emerged  with  a  triumphant  solution  and  until  she 
bowed  to  that  with  some  humility,  when  he  would  raise 
her  high  with  the  show  of  his  respect.  But  she  was 
hard  to  convince,  she  was  suspicious,  she  was  obstinate 
— his  words  went  emptily  ahead  against  her  yielding 
figure,  her  gracefulness,  the  gathering  helplessness  not 
wholly  concealed  in  her  face.  Thought — words — 
they  had  taken  possession  of  him,  ringing  hollow  with- 
in, he  told  himself.  An  end  to  all  logical  processes 
and  splitting  the  shades  of  meaning !  His  heart  should 
rule  him,  primitively,  despotically,  recklessly — till  he 
blundered  through  to  her  good  will. 

The  girl  listened  to  his  steps  behind  her.  He 
doubted — everything!  she  inwardly  shrugged.  It  was 
the  way  of  his  sex,  the  way  of  inconstancy,  the  way  of 


244  JOH N    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

which  old  women  told  tales  to  younger  ones.  He  had 
tramped  on  her  sacred  ground,  spreading  his  doubt, 
demanding  attention  for  himself  alone — when  for  him 
the  world  lay  open,  with  no  one  to  ask  the  why  or 
whither  of  his  going.  She  asked  only  that  he  should 
go, — except  that  their  parting  should  be  pretty  and 
strike  once  more  that  first  note.  It  must  be,  if  she 
could  make  it  so ;  he  must  remember  her  kindly.  She 
must  and  she  could  dwell  on  his  being  good.  Per- 
haps there  never  would  be  any  one  else  so  good.  And 
he  clumsily  had  tried  to  be  good  to  her. 

To  the  mountain  they  were  two  people  of  the  same 
youth,  the  same  aspiration,  the  same  warmth,  and  will 
to  live.  To  its  long  view  the  shades  of  their  difference 
counted  only  as  the  shadow  of  their  affinity.  The 
mountain  waited  in  its  ancient  calm,  for  weal  or  for 
woe. 

She  brought  up  with  her  head  in  a  ceanothus,  scan- 
ning the  near  distance.  Kendry  looked  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  Good — oh,  good !  "  he  exulted.    "  Let  him  come !  " 

"  No,  no! "  the  girl  paled.  "  He's  capable  of  kill- 
ing you ;  you  must  leave  me  here !  " 

Kendry  stood  in  the  trail.  "  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Paul- 
ter,"  he  said.  She  touched  his  sleeve. 

"  Can't  you  go,  and  let  me  have  my  mountain?  "  she 
looked  up  to  him.  "  Would  you  drive  me  away  from 
my  home — my  mother  ? "  He  smiled,  liking  her 
touch. 


AN    IMPORTANT    PROMISE  245 

"  You  won't  have  to  go,  Miss  Marr,"  he  said.  "  I 
was  overwrought  from  that  nasty  experience  under- 
ground. I  hope  you'll  forget  it.  It's  all  very  clear; 
I'll  arrange  matters  with  him."  She  nervously 
laughed. 

"  I  shall  not  submit  to  that,"  she  whispered.  "  You 
must  go  down  this  other  trail,  like  a  good  boy.  If 
you  don't  it  will  spoil  the  mountain  forever  for  me. 
Haven't  we  enjoyed  it  too  much  for  you  to  end  like 
that  ?  "  she  coaxed. 

"  It  isn't  the  end,"  said  Kendry.  "  He  won't  hurt 
you ;  no  one  would.  He  wants  to  talk  to  me." 

She  caught  a  glimpse  of  Paulter  winding  rapidly 
into  the  fold  beyond  them.  "  Be  reasonable,"  she  said. 
"  /  don't  think  you  fear  him " 

"  Neither  does  he,"  said  Kendry;  "  but  he  thinks  I 
won't  play  the  game;  he  thinks  I'm  rude " 

"  Don't  play  the  game !  "  her  voice  trembled  warmly 
up.  "  He  carries  a  pistol !  Go,  and  perhaps  come 
back — to  the  idea,  to  the  mountain.  I'll  let  you  have 
it  all  to  yourself!" 

"  Not  even  for  you,"  said  John  Kendry's  son. 

She  kept  murmuring  things.  The  man  rounded  the 
last  curve ;  his  face  was  gray  and  they  heard  his  breath- 
ing. She  beat  down  Kendry's  arm. 

"  He's  going  away;  he's  going  to  Venice,"  she  kept 
saying  into  Paulter's  eyes.  His  lips  were  always  mov- 
ing, but  she  did  not  hear.  The  gravel  ground  beneath 
all  their  feet. 


246  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

"  She's  coming  to  meet  me  again,"  Kendry's  voice 
was  more  distinct  than  theirs. 

"  It  isn't  true,"  she  cried.  There  was  a  half -healed 
scar  across  Paulter's  face.  He  was  seeking  to  loosen 
her  hold  on  his  collar;  but  she  felt  no  pain — only  the 
voice  of  Kendry : 

"  She'll  come  to  that  cliff  where  the  lone  tree  is " 

"  It  isn't  true !  "  she  cried. 

"  She'll  come  at  dawn — to  see  the  sunrise — three 
days  from  now!  If  you  shoot  me  then,  you  won't 
hang  for  it.  Now  let  her  be,  you  beast !  " 

Kendry  was  moving  down  the  other  trail. 

"  I  shall  not  come !  "  she  cried.  He  knew  she  would 
not  come;  but  Paulter  would  come  and  the  rising  sun 
should  be  their  witness.  Paulter  would  come  suspic- 
iously expecting  to  thwart  them.  The  sight  as  the 
turn  of  the  trail  again  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  them 
brought  his  heart  to  his  throat.  She  had  been  patting 
the  man's  cheek,  calling  his  name  as  if  he  had  been  a 
dog  she  feared.  Now  Paulter's  arm  was  about  her. 

"  She'll  come !  "  Kendry  pointed  at  them.  Paulter 
laughed.  He  stood  pressing  her  to  his  bosom.  The 
girl  sobbed  and  Paulter  laughed  across  her  shoulder. 
Kendry  stumbled  over  the  stones,  the  veins  standing 
on  his  forehead,  his  tongue  fallen  into  the  vocabulary 
of  the  West.  The  man  had  taken  her  in  his  arms — 
the  thought  swelled  within  him  at  each  step.  It  stayed 
with  him  when  he  reached  the  lowest  altitude.  It  fol- 
lowed him  to  his  rooms;  it  threatened  to  upset  what 


AN   IMPORTANT    PROMISE  247 

little  conscious  arrangement  there  was  left  as  to  what 
he  valued,  what  he  wanted.  The  obsession  sharply 
broke  when  he  reflected  that,  viewed  with  calm,  it 
was  rather  greater  than  an  even  chance  that  he  had 
but  three  more  days  to  live. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

A   NEW   MARY 

KENDRY  expected  to  arrive  first  on  the  ground  and 
there,  with  his  back  against  the  dawn,  to  command  a 
halt  of  Paulter's  subsequent  approach;  on  which  the 
two  would  begin  to  shoot  and  would  continue  till  one 
of  them  was  dead. 

Three  months  previous  Kendry  would  have  called 
such  a  programme  brutal,  hideous,  uncivilized,  unnec- 
essary. He  would  have  looked  upon  it  as  vain,  melo- 
dramatic, pitiful.  Paulter  primitively  demanded  that 
Kendry  should  relinquish  his  communion  with  a  young 
woman — it  was  of  separate  importance  that  she  was 
Ethel  Marr.  For  an  alternative  there  was  Paulter's 
insistent  menace  against  her  peace  and  against  Ken- 
dry's  life.  Upon  these  premises  Kendry  would  have 
said  that  the  duty  of  a  civilized  man  was  to  appeal  to 
the  law.  The  rights  Paulter  assailed  were  Kendry's 
by  law.  To  halt  upon  the  question  of  what  his  enemy 
thought  of  his  courage  Kendry  would  have  called 
harking  back  to  a  decayed  and  ridiculous  "  chivalry." 

But  now  that  he  impulsively  had  brought  the  issue 
to  where  it  was,  Kendry  supported  the  impulse  with  his 

reason.     What  were  the  exact  measures  the  law  would 

248 


A    NEW   MARY  249 

take?  Provided  he  could  convince  a  magistrate  that 
Paulter's  intentions  were  homicidal,  the  magistrate 
would  place  Paulter  under  bonds  to  keep  the  peace. 
Paulter's  desire  to  reach  Ethel  Marr,  across  the  gulf 
to  him  invisible,  that  in  all  dimensions  divided  him 
from  her,  then  must  be  porportioned  against  a  sum 
of  money,  extorted  from  him  after  the  whole  story 
that  had  begun  on  the  mountain  had  been  recited  in 
the  court  to  be  magnified  and  elaborated  in  an  irre- 
sponsible press.  Kendry  believed  that  Paulter  would 
disregard  the  bond  with  that  same  turn  of  lip  which 
he  paid  to  all  else  that  opposed  him.  Kendry  believed 
it  because  he  could  not  imagine  money  weighing 
against  an  obsession  of  the  meanest  heart.  The  law 
required  a  sickening  publicity:  in  exchange  it  could 
give  no  certainty.  The  law  marched  behind  the 
event.  In  the  highest  civilization  there  would  be 
nothing  to  prevent  one  man's  summoning  death  as  the 
arbiter  of  his  quarrel  with  another  man.  If  it  was 
humiliating  for  Kendry  to  set  himself  against  one  so 
ignoble  as  Paulter,  in  a  contest  where  undescriminat- 
ing  chance  should  decide  the  issue,  it  still  had  become 
the  sweeter  alternative.  To  this  conclusion  instinct 
and  reason  moved  together. 

It  brought  him  to  a  cooler,  clearer  state  of  mind. 
The  two  worse  possibilities  seemed  to  balance.  On  the 
one  hand  was  to  die,  which  was  disagreeable;  but  to 
die  a  man;  on  the  other  hand  was  to  live,  which  was 
desirable,  but  to  suffer  the  extinction  of  his  self- 


250  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

respect.  To  turn  and  flee  was  inconceivable;  hence 
to  go  ahead,  perhaps  to  the  elimination  of  Paulter,  but 
in  any  case  to  a  solution,  to  a  finality,  was  the  logical 
index ;  and  the  logical  index  was  all  he  asked. 

There  hovered  over  him  immediately  the  inevitable 
cloud  on  human  processes.  It  carried  that  memory  of 
Ethel  Marr  being  drawn  in  odious  closeness  to  Arthur 
Paulter  at  the  irresponsible  moment  of  her  reaction 
from  her  fears.  It  meant  that  if  Kendry  died,  if  he 
himself  escaped  an  unbearable  imposition,  he  left  her 
prey  to  it  without  his  sympathy,  his  aid.  The  thought 
weighed  in  the  balance  against  his  stoicism :  it  threat- 
ened to  bring  him  to  the  trial  as  a  supplicant,  asking 
for  poetic  justice.  He  summoned  more  stoicism,  he 
imagined  her  filling  his  dead  silence  with  her  own 
stoicism.  There  were  preparations  he  must  make.  He 
strove  to  preoccupy  his  mind  with  them. 

There  was  to  make  his  will  and  there  was  to  scan 
the  ledger  of  his  other  personal  relations.  He  wrote 
cheerfully  to  his  sister,  impressing  himself  upon  each 
one  of  her  family  in  the  way  he  would  like  to  be 
remembered,  yet  giving  no  hint  of  what  the  cable 
might  startle  them  with,  two  days  hence.  He  must 
now  be  as  methodical  and  exact  in  his  more  intimate 
affairs  as  he  knew  how  to  be  in  the  conduct  of  his 
fortune.  There  was,  shameful  to  his  days  of  selfish 
introspection,  that  piece  of  paper  he  had  taken  from 
the  breast  of  the  sailor  in  those  fading  moments  under 
ground.  By  now  the  sailor  and  the  Pole  might  be 


A    NEW    MARY  251 

dead  and  buried  without  identification.  In  the  least 
event,  their  peril  partly  had  been  due  to  him  and  there 
was  reparation  due  them.  It  was  Monday:  he  tele- 
phoned his  agent  and  commanded  a  report  on  both 
men  before  two  o'clock  on  Tuesday.  From  that  hour 
till  nightfall  he  would  devote  himself  to  their  cases. 
Prior  to  that  time  he  would  occupy  himself  with  his 
will,  and  from  this  nothing  should  divert  him.  Thurs- 
day was  the  appointed  dawn.  He  wanted  Wednesday 
for  himself  alone. 

It  had  been  his  thought,  to  the  extent  of  his  few 
millions,  to  leave  his  money  as  a  force  at  some  new 
point,  demonstrating  a  new  desideratum,  a  new  possi- 
bility in  the  evolution  of  society.  The  thought  was 
vague,  susceptible  to  ridicule,  liable  to  men's  uncon- 
cern, just  as  the  idea  at  first  had  been  vague,  just  as 
every  fresh  thought  may  be  when  first  half  plucked 
from  the  dimness  above  men's  infinite  grasp.  He  had 
not  precipitated  it  out  of  that  vagueness.  He  took  up 
his  pen.  There  were  institutions  of  learning,  essaying 
to  advance  leading  the  strong ;  most  of  the  great  move- 
ments of  history  had  risen  from  levels  intellectually 
lower  and  emotionally  deeper,  to  be  labeled  and  pre- 
served in  dessication  by  those  institutions.  There  were 
institutions  of  mercy,  which  followed  the  human  pro- 
cession restoring  the  weak  and  the  wounded  to  the 
long  straggling  rear,  fighting  the  phenomena  of  elimi- 
nation, by  which,  rightly  or  wrongly,  society  moved 
toward  its  unknown  goal.  In  the  other  categories 


252  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

he  found  nothing  that  appealed  to  his  aim.  The 
commonplace  rich  man  could  be  trusted  to  endow 
them  all. 

At  midnight  he  tore  up  his  bescribbled  page.  He 
was  keeping  account  of  his  nervous  forces.  Sleep  was 
their  coefficient.  He  gently  put  Ethel  Marr  from  his 
mind ;  the  best  he  could  do  for  her  was  to  maintain  his 
strength,  his  steadiness. 

Two  o'clock  on  Tuesday  found  him  no  nearer  in- 
spiration. Deprived  of  his  own  guidance,  the  money 
seemed  capable  of  building  itself  into  a  monster  of 
ineffectualness,  against  which  the  only  remedy  would 
be  its  whole  dispersion.  The  report  concerning  the 
sailor  lay  on  his  table;  that  about  the  Pole  was  to  be 
expected.  Kendry  started  to  dress.  Eastwood  came 
in. 

"  I  must  be  out  of  here  in  four  minutes,  but  the 
place  is  yours,"  Kendry  said.  He  assembled  the  bot- 
tle, the  siphon,  the  arm-chair  and  cushions  necessary 
to  Eastwood  and  his  limp.  Eastwood  had  greeted 
him  with  an  expectancy,  which  he  followed  by  an  hes- 
itation. 

"You  haven't  read  the  papers  this  morning,"  he 
finally  said.  "Then  when  do  you — the  next  day? 
Well,  the  lode  of  the  Little  Dog  mine  has  jumped  off 
the  claim.  It  busts  Mab — complete.  What  do  you' 
think  of  that?" 

"  It  will  be  forty-eight  hours  before  I  can  begin  to 
digest  it !  "  Kendry  was  frowning  over  his  collar  but- 


A    NEW   MARY  253 

ton.  Eastwood  fixed  on  him  and  began  to  stroke  his 
double  chin. 

"  Perhaps  there's  no  reason  why  you  should  digest 
it,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  coolness.  "  But  there's 
a  reason  for  my  wanting  to  give  you  the  straight 
facts." 

"  Hand  'em  out !  "  Kendry  acquiesced.  He  seized 
his  waistcoat.  Eastwood  swallowed  his  glass  at  a 
gulp  and  put  it  down  with  the  mark  of  inquiry.  Then 
he  flushed;  then  he  sighed.  He  tapped  his  boot  with 
his  stick. 

"  She  came  home  to  get  indivdual  possession  of  her 
share  of  the  estate.  She  would  have  the  mine.  I 
told  her  what  everybody  knows  about  mines.  But 
she  wouldn't  touch  the  real  estate ;  the  idea  of  a  mort- 
gage or  two  simply  scared  off  her  reason.  And  she 
would  have  the  mine.  It  had  taken  a  spurt  and  I 
didn't  count  the  spurt  in  the  valuations  we  made.  It 
increased  forty  per  cent  in  the  clean  up,  for  two  weeks ; 
then  the  lode  jumped  into  the  next  company'  claim. 
She  has  left  to  her  just  that  one  unimproved  piece 
backing  yours  on  Mission  Street,"  he  paused,  with 
an  indefinite  note  of  inquiry.  Kendry  was  filling  his 
pockets. 

"  What  is  the  moral  effect  of  this  going  to  be  on 
Mary?"  he  seemed  to  have  found  something  to  say. 
Eastwood's  head  turned  to  him  with  a  suddenness. 

"  I  don't  guess  she's  got  'round  to  the  moral  effect," 
he  feelingly  said.  "She's  camping  on  the  financial 


254  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

effect !  The  moral  effect  on  me,  if  you  want  to  know, 
has  been  merry  hell!  It's  rung  every  bell  in  her 
chimes.  /  use  the  backstairs.  But  I'm  not  going  to 
spread  out  on  that :  every  woman  keeps  an  angelic  side 
for  somebody,  if  he's  nimble  enough  to  chase  the  spot 
where  it  shines."  He  threw  a  jealous  glance  at  Ken- 
dry's  preparations.  "  I  suppose  it  occurs  to  you  that 
I'm  going  to  do  something  for  her  ?  " 

"  I  should  hope  so ! "  Kendry  raised  his  brows,  seek- 
ing his  hat.  He  waited,  ready  to  depart.  Eastwood 
regarded  him  to  a  length  that  was  interrogative,  but 
he  failed  to  penetrate  the  other's  mind. 

"  Well,  how  much  ?  "  he  voiced  his  dissatisfaction. 
"Why  should  the  whole  ton  of  bricks  fall  on  me? 
The  old  man  left  my  mother  enough  to  live  on 
quietly.  He  had  a  sneaking  idea  she'd  marry  again — 
I  guess  everybody  knows  that  story.  He  left  the  rest 
to  Mab  and  me.  I've  been  saving  up  most  of  my  in- 
come against  a  rainy  day,  and  a  family.  Mab  has 
shown  me  what  it  costs  to  keep  a  woman  contented. 
She's  been  spending  from  sixteen  to  twenty  thousand 
a  year,  keeping  up  that  *  salon '  in  Paris ;  and  I  saw 
some  people  there  that  looked  as  if  they  would  take 
five  if  they  couldn't  borrow  five  hundred.  Mother  has 
three  thousand  a  year ;  and  that  is  just  what  I've  been 
allowing  myself  for  my  own  expenses ;  and  it's  enough 
for  Mab,  as  a  single  woman ;  and  that's  just  what  I'm 
going  to  give  her !  "  he  challenged  with  visible  effort. 
Kendry  held  his  watch  in  hand. 


A    NEW    MARY  255 

"If  you  want  my  judgment,  she  can  get  along  on 
that,"  he  stared.  Eastwood  could  not  fathom  him. 

"  She'll  make  a  better  married  woman  for  the  ex- 
perience," he  seemed  to  begin  to  think  aloud.  "  She'll 
come  down  and  perch  where  she  can  be  petted.  Lord, 
how  she  does  want  to  be  petted,  just  about  now !  A 
couple  of  soft-boiled  words — "  he  appeared  to  break 
the  thread  of  his  thoughts.  "  Old  chap,  don't  let  me 
keep  you  from  more  important  matters.  I'll  finish  my 
glass ;  you  go  on."  Kendry  nodded. 

"  I'll  see  Mary  at  the  first  opportunity,"  he  started 
away.  Eastwood  stopped  him  with  a  rap  of  his  stick 
on  the  table.  He  nervously  suppressed  a  smile  at 
space. 

"At  the  first  opportunity?"  Kendry  waited  pa- 
tiently. "  Well,  she's  down  in  the  reception  room, 
waiting  for  me,  of  course,"  he  drawled.  It  brought 
Kendry  to  a  standstill. 

"  I'll  take  her  with  me,"  he  announced.  But  his 
rapid  steps  in  a  moment  returned  along  the  corri- 
dor. "  When  did  she  get  this  news  ?  "  he  inscrutably 
said,  holding  the  door.  Eastwood  took  a  long 
breath. 

"O,  you've  seen  her  since.  It  was  after  you  left 
her,  that  day  you  got  me  into  that  hole  in  Chinatown. 
She  hadn't  been  going  to  say  anything  about  it;  but 
they  put  that  stuff  in  the  paper.  How  long  shall  you 
be  ?  "  There  appeared  to  be  a  definite  purpose  in  Ken- 
dry's  mind. 


256  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

"  I'll  return  here  in  just  one  hour  and  twenty  min- 
utes," he  stated.  Eastwood  allowed  himself  an  agree- 
able assumption. 

"  You  talk  like  a  business  man !  "  his  tone  might 
have  been  taken  to  insinuate  more.  "  On  with  the 
dance ;  I'll  wait!" 

He  waited,  though  he  had  received  no  answering 
gleam.  Kendry  wasn't  very  plump,  he  said  to  him- 
self, comparing  Kendry  with  his  own  amplitude;  it 
was  the  result  of  an  overworked  conscience,  or  some- 
thing. Kendry  walked  the  world  generally  with  a 
twinkle  about  his  eyes,  enough  to  denote  good  nature, 
but  not  enough  to  denote  what  Eastwood  called  good 
fellowship.  You  couldn't  tell  what  Jack  Kendry  would 
do,  he  reflected,  any  more  than  you  could  have  told 
what  his  father  would  do,  even  if  it  had  been  worth 
thousands  to  you.  Still  it  took  all  kinds  of  men  to 
fit  out  the  girls  with  something  to  love.  Eastwood 
settled  himself  to  see  if  he  could  get  an  image  of  Ethel 
Marr  in  a  glass  of  brandy,  and  to  wonder  how  she  had 
so  managed  to  climb  up  and  pull  the  ladder  after  her. 

Mary  came  forward  with  a  sad  little  meaning  toss 
of  the  head.  When  she  turned  to  look  for  a  chair  his 
hand  restrained  hers. 

"  Henry  has  told  me  the  news,"  he  said.  "  Will 
you  drive  with  me?  It  will  give  me  a  chance  to  see 
you.  There's  something  you  can  suggest  my  doing, 
perhaps,  for  a  woman  in  misfortune — something  you'd 
like  to  look  back  to."  She  was  moving  off  with  him 


A    NEW   MARY  257 

mechanically,  while  he  spoke.  She  was  unobtrusively 
proving,  to  the  attracted  eyes  in  the  lobby,  the  imper- 
turbability of  a  spirit  whose  pride  was  essential.  Ken- 
dry  had  never  seen  her  so  richly,  so  almost  noticeably 
dressed.  Her  glitter  caught  the  attention  of  the  peo- 
ple on  the  street  and  became  for  him  something  con- 
sciously to  seem  to  ignore.  It  pointed  to  him,  though 
not  keenly  against  his  major  preoccupation,  the  change 
that  had  stolen  over  her  since  those  first  Paris  days. 
It  added  to  the  incongruousness  of  their  driving  across 
into  the  less  desirable  residence  quarter  of  the  town. 
Her  glance  took  in  the  cheap  shops,  the  smoky  tene- 
ments. 

"  If  it's  money,  I'll  give  her  some,"  she  rather 
feebly  said;  "but  I've  quite  run  out  of  sympathy. 
When  I'm  in  a  mean  street  I  get  into  a  mean  mood. 
And  I've  already  been  preparing  myself  to  pick  out 
a  mean  room  on  a  mean  steamer.  I  suppose  the 
sooner  we  go,  the  better.  What  have  you  decided  ?  " 

She  seemed  to  have  lost  substance;  her  voice  lacked 
volume. 

"  You  won't  have  a  chance  to  give  money,"  Kendry 
said.  "But  your  sympathy  will  flow  spontaneously, 
if  you  get  this  woman  to  talk.  I  wonder  if  you 
wouldn't  be  happier  staying  in  California,  at  home  in 
the  big  house?  " 

"That's  just  the  sort  of  a  thing  I  didn't  expect 
from  you,"  she  frowned.  "  It  sounds  too  much  like 
Hal.  Please  don't  count  up  my  jewelry  and  tell  me 


258  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

what  I  could  get  for  it!  It  isn't  the  money;  it's  the 
loss  of  one's  even  standing  with  one's  friends.  I'm 
sensitive  on  that.  If  you're  not  most  careful  I  shall 
suspect  a  change  even  in  you."  The  words  seemed  to 
fall  against  an  austere  semi-detachment  on  his  part. 
Her  look  flattened  to  the  long  straight  lines  of  dirty 
drab  and  yellow  houses,  of  barren  brief  garden  spaces, 
of  false  roof-fronts  and  dingy  panes. 

"  I  can't  see  what  money  has  to  do  with  our  joint 
history,"  Kendry  presently  answered  her.  So  right 
and  so  empty,  she  might  have  told  him.  Well-fed, 
insolent  children  of  the  republic  were  hanging  on 
triumphantly  behind  the  open  carriage:  he  ought  to 
have  foreseen  that,  he  ought  to  have  chosen  a  closed 
one.  They  bounced  through  muddy  holes  and  skidded 
along  car  tracks  in  and  out  among  the  trucks  which 
contributed  to  the  debris  between  the  curbs. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  brought  me  here,"  she  sighed. 
"  Is  it  a  prophecy  in  extension  of  what  I'm  coming 
to?"  To  her  it  was  as  if  with  stale  habituation  he 
had  expected  her  remark. 

"  Because  otherwise  I  shouldn't  have  the  chance  to 
see  you  to-day,"  he  was  kind.  "  Besides,  you  already 
see  how  fortunate  you  still  are,"  he  waved  at  the 
monotony  that  depressed  her.  "  You'll  get  a  new 
sense  of  proportion  when  you  hear  this  woman's  story. 
The  man  was  going  to  marry  her;  but  he's  lost  his 
grip.  She's  willing;  but  the  sailor  thinks  he  ought 
not  to.  Try  to  melt  the  poor  creature,"  he  coaxed. 


A    NEW    MARY  259 

Her  faint  responsive  air  lingered  while  his  eyes  were 
on  her.  They  had  come  into  the  region  of  the  most 
saloons,  of  the  most  second-hand  furniture  and  cloth- 
ing shops  where,  by  the  merciful  adaptiveness  of  human 
nature,  the  deepest  indifference  endured  as  to  color, 
form  or  permanency.  They  ascended  straight,  narrow 
steps,  above  a  locksmith's,  into  a  smell  of  cabbage. 
They  waited  mutely  under  curious  eyes  that  peeped 
through  the  crack  of  double  doors.  The  crowded 
upholstery  fought  the  blue  wallpaper,  appealing  to  a 
precarious  stand  whereon  a  violet  and  orange  bowl 
held  pink  paper  flowers.  The  fat  woman,  without  a 
collar  beneath  her  frowsy  head,  brought  down  to  them 
a  woman  of  forty,  thin  and  worn.  Kendry  disap- 
peared whence  she  had  come.  Mary  heard  him  gruffly 
greeted  by  the  sailor.  She  sat  gingerly  on  the  sofa 
that  mocked  the  shade  of  her  gown.  Mrs  Spiller  was 
neatly  mended  and  buttoned.  She  had  pricked  fingers 
and  hollow  eyes ;  she  induced  melancholy,  taking  note 
of  Mary's  clothes.  It  was  a  pleasant  day,  they  agreed, 
looking  to  the  hideous  roofs  refracted  by  the  window 
glass.  The  woman's  mind  seemed  undetachable  from 
the  sound  of  masculine  voices  in  the  room  above.  Yes, 
she  got  good  wages.  Yes,  she  gave  herself  enough  to 
eat;  she  didn't  know  why  she  shouldn't;  some  people 
ate  too  much;  her  eyes  met  Mary's  for  one  instant. 
Her  husband  had  died  five  years  ago,  and  her  only 
child  had  gone  in  the  same  year.  Her  face  hardened. 
There  was  a  long  pause.  The  creature  was  inhuman, 


260  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

Mary  flushed ;  and  the  carpet  hadn't  been  swept.  They 
were  startled  by  the  sailor's  voice  hysterically  calling : 
"  Mary !  "  The  woman  blanched ;  they  came  to  their 
feet. 

"  He  doesn't  mean  me  ?  "  Mary  Eastwood  stared. 

"  No ! "  the  woman  scorned,  running  to  the  stairs. 
Kendry  met  her  half  way  up,  his  hand  raised  to  reas- 
sure her.  For  Mary  the  sight  of  him  was  a  refuge  to 
be  sighed  over.  He  was  joyously  benign,  smiling 
down  to  Mrs.  Spiller;  the  walls,  the  carpet,  the  cab- 
bage diminished  to  his  supporting  background.  He 
was  beautiful,  Mary  angered  at  her  humbleness. 

"  Go  up  to  him !  "  he  laughed  to  Mrs.  Spiller.  Mary 
moved  as  to  depart. 

"  Wait !  "  Kendry  mischievously  whispered.  They 
were  to  see  Mrs.  Spiller  returning  in  tears,  blindly 
feeling  for  the  balusters.  It  was  painful  to  Mary :  the 
woman  had  no  handkerchief;  she  mixed  her  inarticu- 
late sobs,  her  blessings  on  Kendry,  with  the  back  of 
her  hand  across  her  face.  She  hadn't  dreamt  of 
anything  like  this.  They  never  would  forget  Mr. 
Kendry.  "  She— she  "—Kendry  patted  her  on  the 
shoulder  and  bade  her  to  return  to  that  man  above,  who 
would  be  on  his  feet  in  another  twenty-four  hours. 
Now  the  public  carriage  seemed  luxurious ;  they  could 
escape  out  of  that  doleful  region. 

"  Have  you  given  them  a  fortune  ? "  Mary  said. 
"  That  place  was  so  smelly!  " 

"  They  didn't  need   a   fortune.     He  had  lost  his 


A    NEW   MARY  261 

nerve :  it  was  just  what  I  have  come  out  of,  only  worse. 
I  gave  him  a  job,  and  there's  a  house  with  it,  and  he's 
going  to  marry  her  to-morrow.  Love  and  a  cottage, 
you  see,  squares  everything." 

"  Ah,  I  grant  you ! "  she  said.  He  seemed  to  linger 
long  over  the  pleasure  his  visit  had  given  him.  They 
crossed  the  dividing  street  and  came  into  a  broad 
avenue  that  took  on  some  grace  as  they  progressed. 
She  could  not  see  why  he  should  gaze  with  such  senti- 
mental abstraction  at  the  houses  to  her  so  familiar  and 
ugly,  and  forward  to  those  blue  hilltops  across  the 
Gate.  "  Then  this  is  the  resurrection  of  the  idea," 
she  finally  said.  "And  your  wavering  was  only  loss 
of  nerve.  And  you'll  stay  here.  And  it  seems  to  you 
that  the  idea  and  I  can  never  be  reconciled." 

"  This  was  hardly  the  idea  in  operation :  it  was 
making  amends."  They  turned  into  her  street.  "  As 
to  plans,  I  have  none — beyond  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row," he  said.  "I  have  a  rather  important  engage- 
ment with  another  man,  then;  and  I'm  afraid  it  dis- 
tracts me.  You  are  not  happy,  are  you,  Mary  ?  "  he 
softened,  seeking  her  eyes.  She  kept  them  up  to  him 
till  she  had  made  a  moment  different  from  any  that 
had  gone  before. 

"  You  are  begging  the  question  about  the  idea,"  she 
presently  said.  He  twinkled. 

"And  if  I  should  go  back  to  it— full  blast?"  he 
asked.  Her  mind  worked  keenly. 

"  It  will  prove  that  you  were  right  and  that  I  was 


262  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

too  scornful,"  she  quietly  turned  away,  looking  into 
the  faces  of  two  friends  she  passed  without  recog- 
nizing. It  was  the  unsaying  of  her  old  attitude,  the 
end  of  her  condescension.  Something  of  her  mystery 
evanesced  with  it.  He  felt  the  difference  in  their 
years:  suddenly  it  was  left  an  isolated  fact  by  her 
earnest  of  harmony  in  their  minds. 

"  My  own  concerns  aren't  worth  talking  about," 
he  more  compassionately  said.  "  I  shall  be  thinking 
of  yours." 

The  driver  cast  a  glance  behind  him.  Kendry  went 
on  to  say  that  wealth  was  merely  relative  and  that  the 
body  politic  eventually  would  undertake  to  regulate 
its  ownership.  She  half  listened  while  he  enlarged 
upon  that.  She  was  preparing  the  scene  for  their  tea : 
not  in  that  great  cold  room  to  which  her  own  cold- 
ness so  often  had  contributed,  but  on  the  balcony  up- 
stairs, under  an  awning  warmed  by  the  afternoon  sun 
and  screened  by  plants.  It  was  small  and  there  were 
many  cushions  and  Hal  and  her  mother  would  not  be 
there. 

His  present  impersonal  note  was  suited  to  the  ears 
of  the  person  on  the  box.  This  she  could,  by  a  word, 
a  glance,  cause  to  strike  as  she  should  wish  it  to. 
Kendry  went  ahead  and  rang  the  bell  for  her.  When 
the  door  opened  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  You're  coming  in !  "  she  commanded. 

"  I  absolutely  must  be  at  my  rooms  in  five  minutes," 
he  sorrowfully  showed  his  watch.  "  I'm  moving  on 


A    NEW    MARY  263 

a  schedule  that  I  can't  alter.  Your  brother  is  wait- 
ing for  me." 

"  Telephone  him,"  she  said ;  "  he's  unimportant." 

"That's  what  he'll  think,"  Kendry  laughed.  "I 
shall  have  to  tell  him  that  I  must  run  off  again,  at 
once."  He  pressed  her  fingers ;  they  were  limp.  "  I 
shall  be  more  human  after  Thursday — if  I'm  alive, 
with  this  rush !  "  he  responded  to  her  unspoken  charge. 
It  was  not  enough.  She  was  taking  it  for  granted 
that  there  never  would  be  more,  never  enough. 

"  Good-by,"  she  dully  said.  The  dullness  remained, 
hardly  yet  enlivened  by  its  coming  glimmer  of  cynic- 
ism, while  he  ran  down  and  took  his  seat  in  the  car- 
riage. It  was  in  her  poise,  not  so  erect.  Her  clothes 
seemed  to  deride  her.  His  present  delinquency  ac- 
cused him  as  he  waved  adieu.  He  hurried  his  driver 
down  the  hill. 

"  Poor,  dear  Mary ! "  he  murmured.  "  But — not 
till  after  Thursday." 


CHAPTER   XXII 

A  SIMILAR   EXCURSION 

EASTWOOD  appeared  to  have  risen  at  the  sound  of  his 
steps.  He  sought  Kendry's  eye,  noting  his  breathing, 
his  color,  his  cheerful  greeting.  Kendry  pounced  on 
his  agent's  yellow  envelope. 

"  Well?  "  Eastwood  finally  said. 

"  Do  pardon  my  rush,"  Kendry  looked  up.  "  I 
dropped  your  sister  at  her  house,"  he  added.  East- 
wood studied  him. 

"You  dropped  her  at  our  house?"  he  presently 
voiced. 

"  Yes ;  you  don't  mind  my  reading  this  a  moment  ?  " 
Kendry  said.  The  letter  rustled  in  the  silence. 

"  You  dropped  her?  "  Eastwood  repeated. 

"  At  your  house,"  Kendry  genially  half  turned  to 
him.  "  Sit  down."  Eastwood  slowly  buttoned  his 
coat. 

"  I  guess  I'll  mosey  along  about  my  own  particular 
damned  business,"  he  addressed  the  door.  "Some- 
thing more  on  your  table."  Kendry  picked  up  the 
card  of  Miss  Marr.  "  I  thought  I  heard  something 
begin  to  drop,"  Eastwood  went  on  without  turning; 
"  but  I  guess  I'm  a  little  too  deaf  in  one  ear.  So 

long!" 

264 


A    SIMILAR   EXPERIENCE  265 

Kendry  restrained  a  disposition  to  snap  his  fingers 
at  the  closed  door.  If  a  growing  understanding  of 
her  brother  added  to  a  knowledge  of  the  thorns  in 
Mary's  new  dependent  situation,  that  was  not  a  mat- 
ter for  one  who,  till  Thursday  morning,  must  look 
upon  himself  as  dead.  On  Ethel's  card  she  had  writ- 
ten :  "  I  will  wait."  She  had  come  to  try  to  dissuade 
him  from  meeting  Paulter;  it  was  natural;  nothing 
else  could  have  brought  her  to  call  on  him.  He  must 
go  down  to  her  in  the  reception  room.  There  was  the 
Pole,  for  whom  the  yellow  envelope  accounted;  there 
was  a  will  to  write,  and  there  was  his  day  of  lonely 
preparation  on  the  Mountain 

He  stopped  on  the  soft  carpet  in  the  corridor.  Ethel 
was  within  the  curtains,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
doubtless  in  the  expectation  of  seeing  him  return.  It 
was  not  the  familiar  blue  serge,  the  straw  hat;  there 
was  an  effect  of  line,  of  richness,  of  not  wanting  at- 
tention but  of  being  proof  against  it,  that  carried  him 
back  to  his  first  days  with  Mary.  Only  the  lines  were 
softer,  firmer,  the  poise  more  pliant :  the  uninvited,  the 
inevitable  contrast  to  Kendry  of  greater  strength, 
sounder  health,  plus  youth.  It  touched  his  generosity, 
his  compassion  for  Mary,  his  rebellion  against  forces 
in  themselves  so  heartlessly  material.  The  girl  felt 
his  presence;  he  saw  her  coming  to  him  without  pre- 
liminaries, her  eyes  supporting  the  appeal  that  palpa- 
bly stood  upon  her  lips.  He  would  be  kind,  he  would 
be  appreciative;  but  he  would  be  firm  and  he  must 


266  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

contrive  to  make  it  short.  From  some  unseen  source 
there  darted  between  them  Georgiana  Baine. 

"  Oh,  here  we  all  are !  "  she  cried  with  fine  surprise. 
"  I  did  want  to  see  you  both,"  she  began. 

"  And  we  both  want  to  see  you,"  Kendry  forced  her 
watchfulness  back  to  himself.  "  You  didn't  leave  me 
your  address.  You're  to  inspect  a  family  of  orphans 
with  us,  at  once !  "  he  led  them  down  the  stairs.  "Prob- 
ably Miss  Marr  will  need  your  professional  knowledge. 
It's  that  Polish  tailor :  he  had  already  lived  too  long  in 
a  cellar.  He  has  left  a  widow  and  five  children." 

If  Ethel  was  proof  against  the  surprise  in  his  state- 
ment her  mildness,  her  acquiescence  did  not  go  to  the 
length  of  applauding  his  dissimulation.  Georgiana 
cast  sidewise  glances  at  her  in  the  carriage.  Geor- 
giana was  willing  to  bet  that  she  had  ridden  in  one 
twenty  times  as  often  as  Ethel  Marr;  and  her  protest 
at  the  girl's  ease  added  something  to  the  pink  spaces 
on  her  creamy  cheeks.  Georgiana's  skirt  hung  stiffly 
out  over  her  yellow  shoes ;  her  hat  stood  up  on  the  back 
of  her  head  as  if  aloof  from  a  worldly  wickedness  she 
could  not  help  knowing  of  by  hearsay.  They  were 
polite,  but  she  felt  out  of  company.  But  she  guessed 
she  could  hold  her  own. 

"  I  hope  it's  quite  clear  to  you,"  Kendry  said  to 
Ethel.  "  You  are  to  determine  what  ought  to  be 
done  for  these  people.  Georgiana,"  he  strained  it  a 
little,  "  is  to  give  us  her  hygienic  advice.  I  am  to  fur- 
nish the  funds.  We  act  entirely  under  your  orders  " 


A    SIMILAR    EXPERIENCE  267 

— Georgiana  missed  his  eye — "  and  you  have  carte 
blanche  absolute." 

"  Even  if  it's  the  Polish  tailor's  family  on  Union 
Street?"  Ethel  said,  noticing  their  direction.  "I've 
long  known  them  by  sight.  You  won't  think  I'm 
doing  too  much  for  them — you've  counted  on  my 
recklessness?  " 

"  I  pay,"  he  bowed.  He  saw  her  imagination  warm- 
ing. 

"There's  the  oldest  girl,"  she  said;  "you  must 
notice  her."  Then  with  a  breath,  "  I've  dreamt  of 
such  an  opportunity,  but  I've  never  had  one."  The 
two  others  felt  themselves  dwarfed  to  her  beside  the 
importance  of  the  event.  "You've  still  a  chance  to 
make  reservations."  But  he  had  the  huge  satisfac- 
tion of  answering  only  with  the  muscles  about  his 
eyes.  Georgiana  was  saying  something  about  soap. 

Except  for  one  who  could  look  with  Ethel's  mem- 
ories to  the  top  of  the  adjacent  hill,  the  Latin  Quar- 
ter vibrated  with  more  cheerfulness  than  that  plane 
Kendry  had  visited  with  Mary  Eastwood.  There  were 
wider  spaces,  bits  of  triangularity,  and  a  remoteness 
from  the  greater  manufacturies.  In  the  language  of 
the  shop  signs,  in  the  goods  displayed,  the  dressing  of 
the  women,  the  voices,  still  lingered  unassimilated  bits 
of  Mexico,  of  Spain,  and  of  Italy  and  France.  The 
population  was  less  dense,  more  prosperous:  roughly 
it  represented  the  wine  of  the  country  as  against  the 
whiskey  and  the  beer.  That  perhaps  had  attracted 


268  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

Pinewsky  to  his  cellar  apartment,  to  which,  after  some 
feet  of  corridor,  the  entrance  was  by  winding  cement 
steps.  In  the  corridor  there  was  a  trail  of  leaves  and 
petals  by  which  they  could  have  found  their  way. 
Ethel  stopped. 

"  It  will  be  the  idea,"  she  said.  "  It  will  be  the 
oldest  girl.  But  the  others — one's  heart  can't  turn 
away?" 

"  It  was  on  account  of  one's  heart  that  one  was 
begged  to  come  here,"  Kendry  said,  repaid  by  her 
flush.  Eagerly  she  led  the  way. 

She  stopped  on  the  bottom  step,  with  only  the  light 
from  the  cellar  illuminating  her.  A  girl  of  twelve 
looked  up  from  a  battered  book.  The  far  ceiling 
stretched  from  a  meager*  skylight  at  the  rear  to  a 
transom  obscurely  on  the  level  of  the  sidewalk.  The 
child  sat  with  her  feet  on  the  rung  of  her  rawhide 
chair.  Her  skin  was  olive;  she  had  deep  brown  eyes 
and  much  hair;  but  her  features  were  not  yet  beauti- 
ful. The  brightly  aureoled  vision  under  the  arch 
above  the  step  stood  fixed  on  the  child  while  she  arose 
on  her  patch  of  carpet  and  laid  her  book  on  the  high 
table,  flattened  at  her  place.  This  was  not  the  kind 
of  visitor  that  ever  had  entered  here  before. 

"  My  father  has  been  buried  this  morning,"  she  ex- 
plained, with  a  foreign  turn  to  her  "  r's  "  and  "  s's." 
"  We  are  not " 

"  I  know,"  the  vision  said.  "  It  is  very  clean  here; 
but  you  are  soon  to  live  in  a  better  place."  The  utter- 


A    SIMILAR    EXPERIENCE  269 

ance  was  more  resonant,  more  liquid  than  had  come 
down  those  cold  steps  from  any  thin  American  throat 
the  child  remembered. 

"  My  mother  has  been  taken  to  the  hospital/'  her 
own  voice  was  encouraged  to  match  the  lady's.  "Three 
of  them  are  gone  to  the  convent.  He  and  I  are  keep- 
ing the  house,"  she  pointed  to  a  screen.  There  were 
bolts  of  cloth  piled  at  the  end  of  the  table;  the  wall 
behind  her  hung  with  patched  and  pressed  old  clothes. 
"He  is  asleep,  now  " — the  lady's  eyes  brought  forth 
the  child's  confidence.  "  He  cried  a  long  time.  He 
says  he  is  not  strong.  It  is  because  he  is  lame." 

"And  when  he  wakes,"  the  lady  spoke,  "  he'll  hear 
news :  that  you  are  to  leave  here ;  that  you  are  to  go 
to  school."  The  child's  eyes  opened. 

"You  said ?" 

"  You  are  to  go  to  school ;  you  are  not  to  sew  at 
night  and  hurt  your  eyes ;  you  are  not  to  worry  about 
the  cost  of  what  you  eat;  you  are  to  think  only  of 
growing  big  and  strong." 

The  child's  lips  parted.  The  room  was  grow- 
ing so  big,  herself  so  small.  Her  hand  made  a 
little  movement  forward  as  if  inclined  to  test  the 
reality  of  this  vision.  The  dimmer  figure  of  Geor- 
giana  seemed  actual  enough;  and  when  Ethel  began 
her  approach  the  quality  of  the  child's  face  dawned  on 
Kendry's  wonder.  The  smile,  if  it  started  at  the 
young  lips,  called  up  every  further  vibrant  faculty  of 
countenance,  of  limbs,  of  torso. 


270  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

"  What  orchestration — what  a  temperament !  "  he 
murmured,  heedless  of  Georgiana's  weight  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"  You  used  once  to  pass  here.  You  have  spoken  to 
me  when  I  did  not  understand  English,"  the  child 
cried.  "You — you  say  I  am  going  to  the  school?" 
the  words  frightened  her. 

"  There  is  some  one  who — even  if  he  should  die," 
the  lady's  voice  strangely  put  it,  "  will  see  that  you  are 
educated  and  given  a  chance  to  develop  all  the  power 
you  have.  Do  you  like  that?"  The  orchestra  sud- 
denly stilled.  She  turned  to  the  screen. 

"  I — I  couldn't  leave  him"  she  shook  her  head. 
"  He  is  lame." 

"  We  shall  see  about  that,"  the  lady  said.  "  Your 
brother  shall  go  to  school,  too ;  and  there  will  be  many 
books;  and  a  fireplace,  and  beds  upstairs,  and  the  sun 
through  the  window  in  the  morning.  It  will  be  in  the 
country." 

The  child  tried  to  bring  back  the  smile  against  her 
fluctuating  color.  But  her  mind  galloped  to  the  fin- 
ish. She  shook  her  head. 

"  There  is  my  mother — and  three  children.  She — 
she  is  always  very  pale.  I  could  not  go.  But — but — " 
she  gasped,  pointing  to  the  screen,  "he  is  so  clever! 
I  have  a  temper:  sometimes  I  am  bad,  because  the 
houses  make  me  feel  like  prisons ! "  her  eyes  glistened, 
her  small  chest  heaved.  "  But  he,"  she  whispered, 
"  he  is  always  good."  All  the  elements  of  her  smile 


A    SIMILAR    EXPERIENCE  271 

reassembled  in  the  voice  of  prayer :  "  Would  you  take 
him?  He  is  lame." 

"Listen!  "  the  lady  held  the  child's  head:  "all  six 
of  you  shall  go,  to  a  house  among  trees.  And  there 
shall  be  a  dog,  and  there  shall  be  a  cow ;  it  shall  come 
true  very  soon.  Do  you  believe  me?" 

The  child  touched  the  lady's  hands :  they  were  warm, 
soft,  real.  A  real  horse  and  cart  clattered  by  beyond 
the  slit  of  light  at  the  sidewalk. 

"  Oh— Oh !  "  her  face  lit  up,  her  thought  spread 
forth  through  all  her  fiber.  "  He — he,"  then,  diminu- 
endo, "  must  I  tell  him,  yet?  " 

"Why  not?"  But  the  child  appealed  anxiously  to 
the  screen. 

"  If  you — if  you  went  away,"  she  managed  to  say, 
"  if  you  did  not  come  again,  it  would  make  him  never 
happy ! "  she  held  back  tears.  She  was  lifted  to  the 
table.  They  both  faced  Kendry.  The  eyes  of  Ethel 
Marr  attacked  him  across  that  cold  space. 

"Ask  this  gentleman,  for  me,  for  you,  with  all 
your  might,  if  he  won't  come  to  see  you,  early — very 
early! — Thursday  morning:  like  a  good  gentleman, 
like  a  sane  gentleman,  so  that  we  all  shall  be  happy ! " 
His  glance  was  not  forbidding,  but  the  child  could  not 
speak.  He  was  thinking  how  Ethel  Marr  had  magni- 
fied since  that  first  day  on  the  mountain,  as  if  the 
sun  had  shone  upon  an  opening  blossom. 

"  If  I  don't  come,  little  girl,  someone  else  shall ; 
and  everything  this  lady  says  shall  be  true,  upon  my 


272  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

word  of  honor."  The  child  started,  from  the  in- 
tensity within  the  encircling  arm. 

"  We  never  asked  you  for  anything  before :  we  may 
never  beg  of  you  anything  again,  but  we  do  beseech 
you  to  come  on  Thursday — early !  "  Kendry  shook 
his  head. 

"  I  can't  alter  my  engagement.  Do  we  look  hon- 
est ?  "  he  came  to  the  child.  She  nodded  from  convic- 
tion. "  Tell  me  something  else  you'd  like  to  have,"  he 
avoided  Ethel's  eye.  The  child  thought.  Her  short 
skirt  had  been  tailored  from  some  man's  abandoned 
coat. 

"  Will  there  be  a  piano?  "  she  trembled. 

"  O,  not  only  a  piano,  but  some  one  to  teach  you 
to  play  it."  She  laughed  and  gave  him  all  her  con- 
fidence. 

"  It  is  for  him.  I  will  sing  in  grand  opera ;  he 
will  play  for  my  learning;  and  to  be  my  manager," 
she  laughed,  with  the  prophecy  ringing  true  in  the 
laughter. 

When  the  colossal  beings  moved  out  of  the  room 
they  left  the  child  warming  the  largest  gold  coin  of 
the  realm  in  her  moistening  palm. 

"  You  might  have  said  so  beautifully  you'd  tome," 
Ethel  was  saying.  But  she  did  not  wait  for  his  an- 
swer. "  Will  you  go  to  the  country  with  them ;  will 
you  look  out  for  them  ?  "  she  said  to  Georgiana. 

"  Lord,  no ! "  Georgiana  breathed.  "  It's  stupid 
enough  in  town,  for  me.  Besides,  I  couldn't  get  on 


A    SIMILAR    EXPERIENCE  273 

with  that  girl :  she's  like  a  theater !  "  Kendry  looked 
at  his  watch. 

"  You'd  like  to  be  driven  to  the  ferry  ?  "  he  asked 
them.  Ethel  unhappily  sought  his  eye. 

"  Heavens,  if  you  two  want  to  drive  there  together, 
don't  fuss  about  me ! "  Georgiana's  giggle  ascended. 
It  caused  Ethel  to  push  her  toward  the  carriage  step. 
Kendry  said  he  must  return  to  his  rooms  by  the 
quicker  electric  car.  The  girl  leaned  out  to  him, 
mutely  beseeching ;  forgetting  Georgiana,  perhaps  for- 
getting herself.  But  he  moved  away. 

He  had  withstood  her.  It  seemed  impossible,  it 
seemed  brutal;  but  it  was  true.  He  was  not  a  live 
man;  not  yet — perhaps  not  ever.  If  she  was  magnifi- 
cent :  if  Mary  Eastwood,  thinly  diaphanous  in  the  light 
that  shone  from  Ethel  Marr,  was  by  so  much  more 
entitled  to  his  generosity,  his  stepping  to  her  rescue — 
they  belonged  together  in  one  category.  It  would  not 
do  to  think.  Thinking  might  make  him  fatally  yearn 
to  live. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 
KENDRY'S  WILL 

TOWARD  eleven  that  evening  the  messenger  who 
brought  him  a  letter  from  Mary  Eastwood  would  not 
wait  for  an  answer.  Kendry  did  not  break  the  seal. 
The  letter  could  contain  nothing  he  should  be  able 
to  answer  prior  to  Thursday.  But  though  he  had  a 
vision  of  its  being  found  on  his  body  and  read  by  vul- 
gar eyes,  he  could  not  add  it  to  the  heap  of  smolder- 
ing papers  in  his  fireplace.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
If  it  contained  a  feminine  negation  of  her  attitude  in 
the  afternoon,  according  to  what  she  considered  that 
to  have  been,  then  her  attitude  at  their  next  meeting 
might  be  another  negation,  canceling  the  first.  From 
another  source  there  had  been  a  communication: 

"DEAR  JACK:    My  life  depends  on  you.     I  hope  you  will 
come  direct  to  my  room  at  not  later  than  eleven  to-night. 

MARIE  DE  FONTENOY." 

To  which  he  had  shrugged  and  tossed  it  into  the 
flames.  But  he  would  go.  Except  for  the  provisions 
covering  the  future  of  the  sailor  and  the  Polish  family, 
his  will  had  made  no  progress.  He  had  dressed  for 
the  mountain.  He  took  up  his  light  marching  kit. 

274 


KEN  DRY'S    WILL  275 

He  would  not  return  to  his  rooms.  As  soon  as  cir- 
cumstances permitted  he  would  cross  the  bay  and  dis- 
appear into  the  wilderness  until  the  appointed  hour. 

Marie  de  Fontenoy  peeped  at  him  through  the  nar- 
rowest slit  of  the  door  before  she  stood  behind  it  for 
his  entrance.  She  wore  a  gown  of  purple  brocade, 
with  ornaments  in  the  fashions  of  the  seventies.  Her 
false  front  stood  memorially  on  her  forehead;  there 
were  little  bristles  on  her  chin;  her  figure  was  of  a 
corpulence  drowning  femininity.  She  locked  the 
door,  thrust  a  lighted  cigar  into  her  mouth,  extended 
her  hands  with  a  cordiality  that  in  China  would  have 
been  considered  immodest  and  hysterical. 

"  The  perfumery  is  stronger  than  the  cigar,"  Ken- 
dry  said.  "  Of  course,  if  you  will  be  a  joke,  I  can 
smile.  You're  a  sort  of  walking  pun  on  yourself. 
But  I  like  to  take  my  friends  seriously." 

"  Alors"  said  Chan  Kow,  "  seriously  take  me  to 
where  I  shall  not  be  coughing  in  a  hangman's  noose. 
They  accuse  me  of  those  dollars,  of  that  dead  monkey 
you  found  on  my  floor.  I  am  '  wanted/  But  I  am 
innocent;  therefore  I  must  sublime.  Will  you  whisk 
me  into  Marin  County,  in  a  horseless  wagon  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  said  Kendry.  "  I  will  consider  the  moral- 
ity of  the  act  after  it  is  performed.  But  an  auto- 
mobile, at  this  hour " 

"  Awaits !  "  Chan  Kow  lightly  sang.  "  I  took  the 
liberty  of  ordering  it  in  your  name."  He  locked  a 
portmanteau;  he  made  no  subtraction  from  the  elab- 


276  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

orate  array  of  articles  on  his  bureau;  a  drawer  care- 
lessly open  was  full  of  ribbons  and  laces.  He  touched 
a  match  to  the  alcohol  beneath  a  pair  of  silver  curling 
tongs.  He  jammed  on  a  leather  cap  and  tied  a  double 
veil  over  his  face,  hiding  his  eyes  and  his  diamond  ear- 
rings. The  table  was  arranged  with  French  news- 
papers and  novels,  and  an  open  box  of  chocolates.  He 
gave  the  portmanteau  into  Kendry's  hand.  "  Mon 
cavalier! "  he  explained. 

"  This  is  my  last  appearance  in  any  such  role  as 
this,  ma  belle  Marie."  Kendry  hid  his  discomfort. 
"Sabbee?" 

"  We  meet  again  in  Paris,"  Chan  Kow  nodded,  "  at 
the  opera,  as  gentlemen :  I,  perhaps,  with  a  dash  of 
rouge  on  my  cheek." 

They  left  the  room  lighted,  a  needless  fire  in  the 
grate,  the  alcohol  burning  under  the  tongs.  A  fat 
pug  dog  lay  asleep  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  as  unalert 
as  if  Chan  Kow  had  drugged  it.  The  great  lady  took 
Kendry's  arm  along  the  arcaded  corridor,  her  bulk  ex- 
plaining her  tottering  gait  on  high  heels,  her  jingle  of 
gold  bracelets,  her  pervading  musk,  her  glint  of  rings 
at  the  end  of  her  silk  mitts  excusing  to  the  hotel  world 
her  want  of  comeliness.  On  the  ground  floor  they 
avoided  the  open  area  where  the  lounging  spaces  were. 
They  came  out  by  a  side  entrance.  The  man  who  had 
brought  the  automobile  saluted  Kendry  with  recogni- 
tion; other  than  him  there  were  no  interested  spec- 
tators to  so  commonplace  a  departure  from  that  large 


KENDRY'S    WILL  277 

hostelry.  They  flew  towards  the  ferry,  the  ugly  de- 
tails of  the  wide  street  lost  in  darkness,  deepened  by 
rows  of  inadequate  gas  lamps'  and  the  glare  of  the 
headlights  from  the  cable  cars ;  the  buildings  softened 
against  the  sky  of  a  mild  night  in  the  grateful  sur- 
cease of  the  day's  commotion.  Chan  Kow  had  set- 
tled himself  in  the  rear  seat,  an  appropriately  char- 
acterless figure.  Kendry  did  not  speak  until  they  had 
locked  wheels  on  the  deck  at  the  stern  of  the  ferry- 
boat and  were  safely  in  the  stream.  Chan  Kow  did 
not  respond.  With  the  colored  lights  of  the  water- 
front gleaming  behind  him  and  the  illuminated  out- 
lines of  the  hill  where,  like  a  Buddhist  tocsin  echoing 
among  Christian  spires,  he  had  spent  so  many  profit- 
able, sensual,  dangerous  years,  Chan  Kow  was  in- 
genuously snoring. 

Kendry  paced  beneath  the  stars.  The  dark  sum- 
mits of  all  the  mountains  held  in  his  thoughts.  Dying 
would  bring  removal  of  all  these  boundaries,  with 
such  infinite  diffusion  of  spirit  over  space  as  to  make 
further  consciousness  seem  improbable.  But  his 
revery  was  not  melancholy;  he  had  asked  for  some- 
thing to  do  and  destiny  had  confronted  him  with 
Thursday  morning.  In  the  face  of  dissolution  all  val- 
ues altered.  He  believed  himself  content.  He  guided 
the  car  in  the  wake  of  the  last  passengers  off  the  boat. 
In  fifteen  seconds  they  were  out  of  sight  of  it.  He 
went  at  thirty  miles  around  broad  curves  into  the 
deserted  country  road. 


278  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

"  I  beg  you  to  teach  me  the  control  of  this  monster," 
Chan  Kow  said,  a  few  miles  farther.  He  was  ex- 
changing his  pointed  slippers  for  a  pair  of  boots.  "  See- 
ing me  carried  like  this,  as  on  a  noisome  cloud,  would 
curl  up  the  spirits  of  my  ancestors!  I  shall  ask  to 
drop  you  in  some  convenient  place;  then  I  shall  con- 
tinue alone,  till  the  '  devil '  underneath  us  throws  me 
into  the  ditch,  which  I  understand  is  the  inevitable 
end  of  enjoying  this  pleasure,  as  with  many  others. 
I  hand  you  here  a  check  on  my  Paris  bank,  to  pay  the 


owners." 


He  conservatively  maneuvered  under  Kendry's 
direction,  a  determined,  but  not  so  apt  a  pupil  as  one 
might  have  expected. 

"  Now  I  will  nap  again  till  you  have  passed  San 
Rafael,"  he  yielded  the  wheel.  "  I  have  promised 
myself  to  deliver  your  friend  Collins,  including  his 
great  ears,  to  the  sheriff  of  Marin  County  before  sun- 
rise. I  hope  he  is  sleeping  as  soundly  as  this  motion 
invites  me  to ! " 

They  echoed  through  the  streets  of  sleeping  San 
Rafael,  and  presently  ran  steeply  down  into  a  region 
between  the  foothills  of  the  sea-ridges  and  the  long 
spread  of  marshes  bordering  the  upper  waters  of  the 
bay.  The  hills  rose  suddenly  out  of  the  flats,  sleekly 
rounded  in  their  folds,  covered  with  grass,  but  mainly 
with  no  other  vegetation  than  a  rare  clump  of  eucalyp- 
tus or  an  indigenous  oak  at  some  chance  height,  black 
and  domed  in  the  night.  In  the  middle  of  a  straight 


KENDRY'S    WILL  279 

stretch  of  road  Chan  Kow  pressed  Kendry' s  shoulder. 

"  Let  us  halt  and  smoke." 

"  And  discuss  the  effect  of  my  being  called  into 
court,  and  telling  all  I  know  about  this,"  Kendry 
said.  He  shut  off  his  spark.  The  stars  and  the  two 
red  points  of  their  cigars  stood  out  together.  The 
other  human  sign  intermittently  was  that  of  a  shifting 
engine  beyond  the  hills.  "  Did  you  murder  that  old 
man  ?  "  Kendry  said.  Chan  Kow's  interior  seemed 
to  have  filled  with  smoke,  awaiting  this  question.  He 
cocked  his  feet  on  his  portmanteau. 

"  Ting  Lee  went  into  the  jewelry  business  with  my 
capital,"  he  said.  "  He  always  honestly  paid  me  half 
of  his  profits.  They  became  large.  Paulter  bought 
bullion,  and  secretly  shipped  it  to  them  from  the  East ; 
Ting  Lee  manufactured  a  little  jewelry,  and  that  ex- 
convict,  Kelly-Collins,  made  many  beautiful  silver 
coins.  I  long  suspected  it;  Paulter  knew  it.  Paulter 
wanted  to  increase  his  returns ;  he  debased  some  of  the 
silver:  you  remember  their  quarrel.  It  was  I  who 
settled  that,  by  sending  back  his  bonds.  But,  because 
you  had  come  to  see  me,  Ting  Lee  and  Paulter  and 
Collins  unceasingly  suspected  that  I  was  under  pressure 
to  betray  them.  The  man  shot  in  the  theater  was 
one  of  my  household  they  had  made  a  spy  of.  The 
fatal  strategem  of  Ting  Lee,  following  that,  showed 
the  decay  of  a  once  fertile  brain.  He  presented  me 
with  a  bottle  of  liquor  he  greatly  praised.  He  insisted 
on  opening  it  for  me ;  so  that  I  brought  him  a  circular 


280  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

tray  with  two  glasses.  He  was  too  gracious — he  even 
went  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  liquor  was  to  celebrate 
the  end  of  our  first  misunderstanding.  For  me  it  was 
then  only  to  divert  him  with  pretexts  until  the  oppor- 
tunity arrived  for  me  to  shift  the  tray.  I  drank,  and 
he  suspected  me  until  I  began  to  show  signs  of  suffer- 
ing. Then  he  drank,  and  my  suffering  suddenly  ceased, 
and  we  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  with  his  begin- 
ning to  enlarge.  While  he  writhed  on  the  floor  I  com- 
posed a  poem  which  it  is  a  pity  I  cannot  translate  into 
French  or  English.  Then  I  thought  of  the  inoppor- 
tuneness  of  that  death — it's  proving  to  the  others  that 
I  knew  what  to  expect  from  them.  I  did  not  wait 
for  your  visit ;  I  could  not  seek  you,  for  you  had  gone 
with  Collins — I  learned  where!  I  took  the  first  boat 
across  the  bay  the  next  morning,  and  had  the  honor 
of  bringing  home  the  laundry  to  Miss  Marr.  It  was 
a  pleasure  to  confirm  one's  opinion  of  so  perfect  a 
product  of  humanity.  I  said  what  caused  her  to  per- 
suade Paulter  to  go  and  release  you  from  that  death. 
Had  I  gone  myself  probably  I  never  should  have  ridden 
in  the  Champs  Elysee.  My  cigar  is  out." 

"  I  hope,"  said  Kendry,  "  that  I  now  am  saving  your 
neck.  Do  you  realize  what  it  must  have  cost  her  pride 
to  appeal  to  that  man  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  know  what  pain  it  would  have  cost  her 
not  to  succeed,"  Chan  Kow  said.  "  But  you  still  live, 
and  a  mighty  force  beats  within  her  breast — equal  to 
all  your  powers  of  mind  and  body  and  soul — the 


KEN  DRY'S    WILL  281 

marvel  of  the  world!  To  which  may  your  wisdom 
lead  your  appreciation." 

"  What  an  extraordinary  composition  you  are,  sir!  " 
Kendry  sighed.  "  Why  do  you  now  risk  your  liberty, 
perhaps  your  life,  pursuing  Collins  ?  With  your  stand- 
points what  have  you  to  gain  beyond  the  petty  ven- 
geance of  jailing  this  man?  "  Chan  Kow  exhaled  at 
the  North  Star. 

"  Collins  will  be  dreaming  in  one  of  those  canons," 
he  said.  "  The  moon  will  be  shining  through  the  holes 
in  his  window-shade.  The  cabin  is  off  the  road  in 
dense  brush  and  oaks.  Collins  will  awake  to  a  falsetto 
scream,  a  falling  body  against  his  door.  He  will  have 
been  a  week  without  seeing  a  mortal.  After  a  long 
silence  he  will  open  the  door.  On  the  step — petticoats ! 
— the  age  obscured  by  the  folds,  the  beauty  of  the 
female  hidden  by  a  veil.  If  he  does  not  shoot,  he 
will  stoop  down  to  that  veil.  And  I  will  bind  him  like 
a  pig,  and  leave  him  at  the  sheriff's  door,  with  the 
circular  of  the  Treasury  Department  pinned  on  his 
breast,  showing  his  likeness  and  his  history " 

"Alive?" 

"  You  are  thinking  what  an  uproar  he  will  make, 
shouting  my  name  while  I  am  guiding  this  devil-go 
around  the  corner?  But  he  will  not  have  seen  my 
face ;  he  will  have  only  felt  my  needle  pumping  through 
his  skin,  and  the  morphine  will  make  him  warm  and 
happy,  like  that  fat  dog  we  left  on  the  bed."  He 
sighed  comfortably  and  stretched  his  legs.  "  As  you 


282  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

say,  however,  there  is  no  satisfaction  in  all  that,  for 
mere  enmity's  sake — if  it  succeeds.  But  to  me,  now,  a 
new  experience  is  worth  the  risk  of  one's  life.  I  have 
tasted  poverty  and  wealth,  slavery  and  domination, 
love  and  disillusionment,  debauchery  and  asceticism, 
friendship  and  homicide,  philosophy-to-optimism,  and 
philosophy-to-despair.  For  you,  mon  brave,  and  for 
that  lovely  coppery  hair  and  morning  eyes,  it  was  left 
to  show  me  what  she  calls  your  idea.  If,  as  I  think, 
you  have  inverted  it,  that  is  because  you  were  born  in 
the  Western  Hemisphere,  upside  down.  For  you  the 
idea  is  to  build  up  the  beautiful ;  for  me  it  is  to  destroy 
the  hideous.  In  either  case  it  is  a  dedication  of  one's 
more  lasting  self  to  the  Great  Whole,  asking  no  return 
but  the  satisfaction  of  one's  spiritual  intellect.  It  is 
a  new  religion  without  a  god — happy  thought!  For 
no  one  can  ever  take  its  name  in  vain,  or  weakly  shift 
responsibility  on  it,  or  suffer  with  fear  of  it,  or  seem 
to  compromise  with  it  by  saying  words.  Exit  Collins 
from  a  bettered  world,  or  exit  Chan  Kow.  I  see  signs 
of  the  moon.  Have  I  said  enough  ?  "  The  steely- 
blue  reflection  from  the  zenith  was  deepening  shad- 
ows on  his  great  countenance  framed  in  the  veil. 
The  man  was  at  least  seventy,  Kendry  looked  at  his 
hard  flesh. 

"  You  are  stupendous !  "  Kendry  sighed.  "  If  I 
could  understand  why  you  flee,  being  innocent,  I  should 
be  at  peace  with  you."  Chan  Kow  made  no  answer. 
When  they  were  ready  to  start  he  said : 


KEN  DRY'S    WILL  283 

"  Should  you  like  to  ride  to  your  wedding  in  an 
automobile  constructed  in  Chinatown  ?  " 

"  I  should  probably  ride  to  a  broken  neck !  "  Kendry 
said,  in  English.  "  You  Chinese  are  no  mechanics." 

"  But  long  before  Byzantium  we  were  administering 
courts  of  law."  Chan  Kow  smoked.  "  Hence  I,  a 
Chinaman,  prefer  not  to  ride  in  your  mechanical  car  of 
justice." 

They  skirted  the  northeasterly  end  of  the  slopes 
that  came  down  from  the  flanking  summits  next  the 
mountain.  The  moon  ascending  silhouetting  the  line 
of  eminences  on  the  San  Pablo  shore,  silvering  the 
winding  waterways  of  the  marshes.  They  scuttled 
like  some  fiery  incongruous  insect  with  a  hundred  hasty 
legs.  At  length  Chan  Kow  stopped  him. 

"  Presently  there  is  a  cross-road  and  a  house.  Shall 
we  part  here,  you  for  your  road  to  the  mountain  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  assume  that  I'm  bound  there?  "  Ken- 
dry  said. 

"  From  which  of  the  two  ladies  have  I  a  letter, 
begging  me  to  dissuade  you  from  this  affair  with 
Paulter?" 

"  It  might  be  from  either,  if  both  knew,"  Kendry 
somewhat  shortly  said. 

"  Both  do.  I  informed  Miss  Eastwood :  it  was  but 
fair.  But  I  have  destroyed  the  letter.  Do  not  suspect 
that  I  shall  interfere.  I  shall  be  zig-zagging  toward 
Paris,  possibly  infected  with  this  mad  motor-car 
disease."  He  put  on  a  belt  with  a  holster,  and  covered 


284  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

himself  with  an  opera  cloak.  "  If  you  kill  Paulter,  I 
trust  to  Nature  and  the  curve  of  that  willow  waist! 
If  he  kills  you — mon  Dieu,  you  have  been  young,  well 
fed — and  let  us  rejoice  that  your  death  will  simplify 
the  life  of  her  who  carries  the  torch  of  perfection." 
He  alighted  in  his  grotesque  garb,  which  he  seemed 
to  have  forgotten.  "  The  greatest  fact  for  me  is 
that  your  father  was  my  friend,  that  I  am  yours, 
and  that  perhaps  you  will  become  mine."  He  offered 
his  hand.  "  To-night :  sleep !  That  is  the  secret. 
When  you  meet  Paulter,  let  him  talk.  Your  eye,  not 
on  his  eye — that  is  the  romance,  the  theater.  Your  eye 
on  the  lower  button  of  his  waistcoat,  your  breathing 
full  as  may  be — six  shots  and  save  one !  A  bad  tooth- 
ache is  worse  than  the  pain  of  giving  up  the  ghost. 
No  stimulants!  Learn  how  much  your  pull  deflects 
your  aim." 

"  I  am  your  friend."  Kendry  gripped  him,  spare 
and  straight  against  the  broad,  round  shouldered  fig- 
ure. "  If  I  live,  test  me !  "  The  old  man's  eyes  glowed 
with  approval,  with  understanding,  with  fidelity. 

"  The  idea  will  test  us  both,"  he  said.  "  The  idea 
came  out  of  your  learning  the  uses  of  wealth,  its 
formula.  When  you  have  learnt  the  uses  of  love,  and 
have  learned  its  formula,  when  you  are  as  rich  in 
love  as  now  your  are  in  money,  then  that  little  surplus 
aspiration  that  remains  will  grow  and  strengthen  for 
the  service  of  the  idea.  Adieu!  If  any  man's  god 
will  make  witness  to  me  I  will  worship  that  god  in  your 


KEN  DRY'S    WILL  285 

favor ! "  He  jerked  forward  and  disappeared  over  a 
rise  in  the  road,  his  veil  blowing  behind  him,  his  ability 
to  guide  the  machine  at  such  a  pace  a  matter  for  con- 
jecture. Kendry  turned  off  to  the  by-road  toward  the 
mountain. 

Mary's  note,  then,  had  been  to  dissuade  him.  It 
justified  his  not  opening  it.  At  last  he  was  alone, 
with  nothing  before  him  until  Thursday  at  dawn.  A 
day  and  two  nights  would  evolve  the  matter  of  his  will. 
At  present  he  watched  the  long  shadows  of  the  euca- 
lypti bordering  the  way,  letting  his  mind  restfully  wan- 
der. Wandering,  however,  it  sought  no  new  fields; 
presently  it  gravitated  to  an  ancient  theme.  There 
with  unhampered  activity  it  fastened  upon  a  contrast 
of  amber  hair  and  chestnut,  then  on  twenty  other  con- 
trasts, less  of  chance  and  more  of  essence.  But  his 
will  presided.  He  found  a  new  balance — it  was  just, 
it  was  comprehensive,  it  was  liberating.  His  fortune 
should  be  divided  equally  between  Mary  Eastwood 
and  Ethel  Marr,  each  to  administer  according  to  her 
light.  Surely  now  he  could  sleep. 

He  climbed  a  steep  hillside,  and  came  under  the 
spreading  gnarled  branches  of  an  oak  that  swept  the 
ground.  It  was  dark  in  the  shadows.  Its  outlook, 
through  the  leaves,  was  only  to  other  hillsides,  other 
oaks  and  the  stars  beyond.  He  lay  with  his  hands 
behind  his  head.  The  air  was  soft,  dry,  still.  The 
solitude,  the  vacancy,  were  part  of  his  mind.  What 
he  in  the  embodied  spirit  might  have  done  for  Mary 


286  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

Eastwood,  for  Ethel  Marr,  not  even  they  could  have 
foretold.  What  the  money  could  restore  to  Mary, 
what  it  could  hold  forth  for  Ethel  Marr  he  foresaw. 
The  solution  was  so  exact,  so  auspicious,  so  poetic 
that  it  seemed  to  make  superfluous  the  day  before  the 
dawn  of  Thursday.  It  was  the  solution.  It  made  John 
Kendry  superfluous  too.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a 
loneliness. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 
ETHEL'S  PLAN 

AT  the  gate  Ethel  listened  for  sounds  from  Paulter. 
Apparently  he  was  not  about  the  house.  There  was  a 
maturer  shadow  at  her  mouth.  She  glanced  to  her 
window  and  to  the  fence  of  wire  and  charred  lath  that 
divided  the  small  garden  from  refuge  beyond.  The 
lamp  on  the  set  dinner-table  in  the  living  room  limned 
her  mother  at  the  doorway,  in  her  gray  gown  and  in 
her  shawl.  The  girl  approached  her  with  a  bunch  of 
violets. 

"  I  ate  on  the  boat :  I  was  late,  and  I  wanted  to  be 
away  from  Georgiana  Baine,"  she  said  to  the  relaxed 
face  that  would  not  look  at  her  and  would  not  respond. 
Her  mother  moved  onto  the  veranda,  drew  up  her 
shawl.  The  city  was  a  distant  glimmer.  "  I  went  to 
see  Mr.  Kendry,"  Ethel  continued  behind  her,  less 
with  the  freshness  of  her  greeting.  "  I  have  promised 
to  care  for  some  orphans  for  him.  I  shall  be  busy. 
Where  is  Arthur?" 

"  He  just  went  out,"  her  mother  colorlessly  said. 
The  girl  let  the  violets  fall  to  her  side.  She  made  her 
way  to  her  room.  Some  time  elapsed  before  she 
returned  in  slippers  and  in  a  calico  gown,  her  sleeves 
rolled  up.  She  began  clearing  the  table,  changing  the 

287 


288  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

cloth,  leaving  the  violets  in  a  vase.  Her  mother's  thin 
fingers  gripped  the  door  posts. 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  you  were  going  there ;  you 
didn't  go  to  see  him  about  orphans !  "  The  girl  drew 
up  as  if  to  the  lash  upon  wounded  shoulders. 

"  Mother,  you  know  why  I  went.  Arthur  isn't  con- 
cealing anything  from  you.  I  hoped  I  could  stop  them. 
I  didn't  succeed."  The  hands  left  the  door  posts  to 
clasp  each  other. 

"  It  will  be  Arthur — I  know  it  will  be  Arthur !  " 
her  mother  moaned.  "  Why  did  you  go  to  that  man — 
why  didn't  you  come  to  him?  If  you  would  say  one 
word  to  Arthur — "  The  girl  straightened  her  arms. 

"  Why  haven't  you  said  that  word?  "  she  approached 
her.  "  Why  do  you  call  on  me  when  it  is  I  who  ought 
to  look  to  you?  I  am  your  daughter:  why  have  you 
let  this  man  pursue  me  into  our  own  house,  when  I 
loathe  him  and  when  he  has  brought  us  to  this  unbear- 
able pass?  Mother,  why  do  you  stand  away  from 
me  so?" 

A  half  smile,  as  if  from  the  sweet  taste  of  self,  mixed 
with  the  bitterness  of  her  mother's  tone.  "  You'll 
try  to  lay  it  on  me,"  she  said.  "  You  won't  say  the 
word  that  would  keep  him  away  from  that  man.  You 
want  him  to  be  killed !  " 

"Ah,  what  possible  word  can  I  say  to  him?"  her 
daughter  deepened. 

"  You  could  show  him  some  condescension,  some 
gratitude  for  all  the  things  he  has  done  for  us " 


ETHEL'S    PLAN  289 

"  Things  against  my  will,  against  my  begging 
him?" 

"  Then  things  he  has  done  for  me."  Violet  Marr 
took  her  opportunity.  "He  sometimes  thinks  of  me! 
I  have  some  value  in  his  eyes:  every  day  I  have  less 
and  less  in  yours.  He's  much  more  like  my  son  than 
you  are  like  my  daughter !  "  she  pressed  the  thin  hair 
from  her  temples.  The  girl  drew  in  her  breath. 

"  Would  you  say  that  if  you  realized  that  it  might 
be  true?"  she  uttered,  with  awe.  "If  you  feel  that 
way,  do  you  dream  of  its  wretchedness  for  me? 
Mother — "  She  tried  to  compel  the  mouth  that  flick- 
ered between  aggrievement  and  the  pleasure  it  took  in 
the  effect  it  had  produced.  The  girl  stood  suspecting 
herself  of  a  vitality,  of  a  heart,  opposed  to  one  who 
sought  to  fasten  on  them ;  to  fasten  on  them  with  feeble 
tendrils  that  pleading  for  mercy's  sake  not  to  be  torn, 
mercilessly  planned  an  aggregate  that  should  crush  her 
power  to  expand.  The  echo  of  their  words  horrified 
her.  "  Mother,  I  haven't  been  forgetting  you  to-day. 
You  saw  the  violets ;  you  turned  away  from  me  when 
I  came  with  them.  I  think  Mr.  Kendry  is  going  to 
marry  Miss  Eastwood.  Nothing  but  my  sense  of  being 
responsible  for  Arthur's  hatred  of  him  would  have 
made  me  call  there.  Won't  you  give  me  your  eyes, 
mother  ?  "  The  gray  gown  passed  in  front  of  her ; 
the  once  shapely  hand  took  to  smoothing  a  tiny  wrinkle 
in  the  cloth. 

"What  did  he  say?" 


290  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

"  Georgiana  Baine  was  there.  But  I  said  what  he 
quite  understood.  He  has  taken  too  many  affronts 
from  Arthur :  they Ve  gone  down  too  deep  in  him ;  he 
merely  said  that  he  would  not  break  his  engagement 
for  Thursday  morning."  The  fingers  drew  up  the 
cloth. 

"  He  means  to  kill  him !  "  her  mother  said  between 
her  teeth.  Ethel  stood  behind  her;  the  lamp  shone 
through  her  mother's  thin  nostrils;  the  room  took  on 
a  foreignness,  a  hostility.  Her  mind  went  back  to  the 
reception  room  where  she  so  long  had  waited. 

"  Or  else  to  be  killed,"  she  corrected.  The  pale  blue 
eyes  shot  at  her. 

"  I've  seen  him ;  he  doesn't  mean  to  be  killed ;  he's 
planned  it  all  out.  He's  not  hot-blooded,  like  Arthur ; 
he's  calculating,  like  his  father;  he's  cold,  like  your 
father,  like  you.  Suppose  Arthur  does  kill  him  ?  "  she 
was  inspired.  "  It  will  be  for  lack  of  one  touch,  one 
endearment,  from  you ! "  The  girl  stared  with  wid- 
ened eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean,  mother,  that  you  would  have  me 
marry  him  ?  "  she  said.  Violet  Marr  again  turned 
from  her. 

"  If  he  thought  you  were  going  to,  he'd  stay  away 
from  the  mountain ;  he'd  do  anything !  Even  without 
your  actually  saying  you  would."  She  heard  her  words 
and  flushed.  The  girl  did  not  respond.  Once  after 
the  heat  of  an  angry  passage  between  them  the  girl 
had  told  herself  that  there  had  been  a  degree  of 


ETHEL'S   PLAN  291 

maturity  beyond  which  her  mother's  mind  never  had 
passed.  Now  the  truth  of  it  was  weighing  on  her. 
Violet  Marr  smoothed  the  cloth.  "  I  couldn't  stand 
the  scandal,  the  publicity  of  it,"  she  began  to  moan. 
"  I'm  not  like  you."  Her  daughter  was  motionless. 
The  tick  of  the  clock  became  exasperating.  "  I  know 
I  shall  never  live  through  this — I  know  I  shall  die — 
up  there  alone."  She  began  to  sob.  Ethel  followed 
and  put  an  arm  about  her. 

"  Mother,"  her  changed  voice  came  close  to  the  older 
woman's  ear,  "  you  must  tell  Arthur  that  he  can't  live 
here  any  more.  We  haven't  time  to  discuss  it.  He 
must  understand  that  he  is  to  leave  our  house,  and 
that  you  and  I  are  going  to  another  part  of  the  world : 
that  he  will  never  see  us  again — that  it  is  needless  for 
him  to  continue  his  quarrel  with  Mr.  Kendry.  Will 
you  do  the  only  thing  that  may  save  them  both — the 
only  thing  that  ever  can  make  us  happy  together  ?  " 
Her  mother's  shoulders  worked  to  be  free;  the  girl 
shuddered,  but  withheld  her.  "  Don't  you  see  how  you 
and  I  can  come  together  again,  in  our  own  little  home, 
away  from  him  ?  I  shall  work ;  I  shall  be  able  to  have 
you  a  servant.  We  can  read ;  we'll  go  to  the  theater ; 
we'll  drive  sometimes — you  know  you  love  those 
things.  Mother,  say  you  will — now,  to-night !  "  Her 
mother  laid  a  finger  on  her  open  lips. 

"  He's  coming !  "  she  panted.  The  girl  clung  to  her 
with  both  arms. 

"  You  can  say  yes  or  no,  mother !  "  She  stifled  a  sob. 


292  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

She  kissed  the  cheek  as  she  had  kissed  it  in  the 
midnight  terrors  of  young  childhood.  "  I'll  give  you 
all  my  love,  mother.  Tell  him !  Say  yes ! "  There 
were  steps  on  the  veranda.  Violet  Marr  extricated 
herself. 

"  He'll  hear  you,"  she  whispered.  The  girl  stood 
away  from  her.  The  light  betrayed  their  agitation. 
Paulter  examined  them. 

"  What's  up,  mother  ?  "  he  said.  They  were  silent. 
Ethel  did  not  acknowledge  his  presence.  The  new 
shadow  deepened  about  her  mouth.  "  What's  up  in 
our  happy  boarding-house  ?  "  his  jocularity  mixed  with 
a  touch  of  sarcasm.  Ethel  took  the  lamp. 

"  I'll  tell  you  presently,"  she  said,  ignoring  her 
mother's  protest.  She  left  them  in  semi-darkness,  while 
she  appeared  to  be  trimming  all  the  other  lamps  be- 
yond the  half-closed  kitchen  door.  Paulter  whistled, 
and  ascended  to  change  his  clothes.  When  he  brought 
down  his  own  lamp  to  her  she  was  washing  the  dishes, 
in  her  rubber  gloves.  Paulter  stretched  himself  on  the 
lounge,  in  his  carpet  slippers.  His  hair  was  oiled  and 
pasted  down  over  the  top  of  the  abrasion  from  Ken- 
dry's  door.  He  waited,  ready  to  wink  reassurance  to 
Mrs.  Marr;  but  she  would  not  meet  him,  and  the 
work  in  the  kitchen  drew  out. 

"  This  don't  phase  me,"  he  undertoned ;  then  he 
whistled  and  pretended  to  read  a  newspaper.  He 
wanted  to  know  what  new  thing  had  happened,  but  he 
could  get  on  without  saying  so.  They  need  not  think 


ETHEL'S    PLAN  293 

he  had  been  moping  that  day.  He  had  been  at  the 
races ;  he  had  lunched  with  two  affable  ladies,  and  his 
bets  had  paid  for  the  lunch.  If  the  ladies  were  not  her 
kind,  their  responsiveness  made  up  for  it,  and  he  knew 
what  they  were  and  they  knew  what  he  was,  and  they 
knew  just  how  far  any  woman  or  any  man  could  go 
with  him.  Violet  Marr  did  not  approve  of  the  races, 
and  he  never  expatiated  on  them  to  her.  She  disliked 
tobacco  smoke,  and  he  could  point  to  a  good  many 
times  when  he  had  deferred  to  her  in  that.  Now, 
however,  he  was  about  to  see  if  there  was  a  cigar 
left  in  his  case,  when  Ethel  reappeared.  She  tried  to 
breathe  as  usual.  She  took  strong  hold  of  the  back 
of  a  chair. 

"  I  was  begging  my  mother  to  ask  you  to  live 
somewhere  else,"  she  said.  "  You  came  back  before 
she  could  answer  me."  Paulter  did  not  meet  her  forced 
gaze.  He  put  his  hands  in  his  pocket  and  fixed  on  her 
mother. 

"Well,  Ma,  why  don't  you  answer?"  he  said. 
They  gave  her  time;  she  painfully  blinked  at  the 
floor. 

"  I  shall  take  no  answer  to  mean  no,  mother," 
Ethel  said.  Paulter  chuckled. 

"  I  guess  if  she  wanted  me  to  go  she  would  find  a 
way  to  let  me  feel  it.  Maybe  she'll  find  out  that  you 
spent  the  afternoon  with  him,  and  tried  to  make  some- 
body else  take  a  job  in  the  country  so  that  she'd  be  out 
of  the  way !  It's  about  time  there  was  some  man  will- 


294  JOHN   KEN  DRY9  S   IDEA 

ing  to  look  after  you ;  and  it  ain't  every  man  that  will 
do  it  and  take  his  pay  in  hard  words."  She  did  not 
flinch. 

"  You've  been  down  to  see  Georgiana  Baine." 

"Yes,"  he  rose  to  the  challenge.  "And  if  you 
knew  as  much  as  she  does  about  looking  out  for  your- 
self she  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  blab.  Oh,  I  size 
her  up,  don't  worry ! " 

"  Mother  answers  no,"  Ethel  resumed,  able  to  free 
herself  from  the  chair.  "  She  hasn't  the  courage  to 
ask  you  to  go.  Now  I  ask  you  to  go.  There  is  a 
hotel  near  the  station.  Will  you  go  to-night  ?  "  He 
angrily  felt  his  color  change.  "  You  are  coming  be- 
tween me  and  my  mother;  you  make  me  live  under  a 
cloud  of  self-consciousness ;  I'm  like  a  plant  in  a  cellar 
here.  I  want  you  to  go.  Will  you  oblige  me?  "  The 
sofa  was  low,  and  Ethel  was  tall,  but  his  wish  to  show 
no  perturbation  kept  him  from  altering  her  advan- 
tage. He  pointed  his  finger. 

"  Say,  who  paid  for  those  clothes  you  wore  to- 
day? "  he  hoarsely  said.  "  The  money  came  in  a  letter 
from  '  Mooseer  de  Paryless  ' — something !  And  who 
is  he?  He  never  saw  Tahiti,  and  I  can  prove  it.  He's 
a  Chinaman  and  his  name  is  Chan  Kow,  and  he 
wouldn't  throw  you  money  for  nothing,  would  he? 
Who  would?  Why,  his  bosom  friend,  Jack  Kendry; 
he  paid  for  your  clothes.  And  you  went  up  to  him 
to-day  as  much  as  to  say :  '  Well,  here  I  am,  in  'em ; 
and  what  next  ? '  That's  all.  If  she  wants  to  chuck 


ETHEL'S    PLAN  295 

me  out  of  her  house,  she  can."  He  had  missed  his 
mark. 

"  Mr.  Kendry  isn't  the  kind  of  man  who  does  that 
sort  of  thing,"  Ethel  said. 

"  Oh,  that  amount  wouldn't  be  a  gnat-bite  to  him!  " 
Paulter  sniffed. 

"  You  miss  the  essence."  Her  quiet  cut  him.  "  He 
wouldn't  put  me  under  such  an  obligation,  against 
my  knowledge,  my  wish.  That  would  be  more  like 
you.  Will  you  go,  now  ?  "  she  gained  in  presence. 
Paulter  tossed  to  the  end  of  the  sofa. 

"  Will  I  go,"  he  said,  "  just  so  you  can  steal  up 
there  and  be  with  him  on  Thursday  morning  and 
spoil  the  game?  Say,"  he  lowered,  "I'm  going  to 
fill  that  guy  so  full  of  lead  that  he  won't  float  on  ice ! 
If  you  don't  want  to  marry  him,  why  are  you  so  pale?  " 
Her  hands  came  back  to  the  chair. 

"  Then  you  refuse  to  go  ?  "  she  ominously  said.  Her 
mother  cried  out  as  if  in  pain. 

"  I  asked  you  to  coax  him !  "  she  said.  "  And  you 
say  everything  you  can  to  make  him  want  to  go  to 
that  man  and  be  shot.  You  sha'n't  drive  him  out  of 
the  house  at  midnight !  " 

"  Then,  mother,  I  shall  go  myself,"  Ethel  drowned 
her.  "  I  shall  never  live  with  you  until  you  are  done 
with  him !  Good-by !  "  She  was  bareheaded,  her  slip- 
pers were  thin;  her  throat  was  exposed.  She  started 
for  the  door.  Her  mother  gasped  her  name.  Paulter 
was  before  her. 


296  JOHN    KEN  DRY9  S    IDEA 

"  You  stay  here !  "  he  said,  with  the  key  of  the 
locked  door  in  his  hand.  He  hurried  to  the  door  of  the 
kitchen,  his  eyes  upon  her.  She  had  made  no  effort  to 
pass  him;  she  might  have  seemed  to  less  excited  eyes 
more  closely  watching  her  effect  on  him  than  planning 
for  herself.  Paulter  locked  the  windows;  they  could 
not  be  opened  noiselessly.  "  You  sit  down  and  stay 
a  while,"  he  said.  "  Your  mother  says  I  don't  pet  you 
up  enough.  Well,  I've  said  all  the  cold  words  I  wanted 
to  say.  Now  I'll  be  pleasant,  whether  you  are  or  not." 
The  girl,  least  agitated  of  the  three,  went  to  her  mother. 

"  He's  committing  a  crime,"  she  stated.  "  I'm  of 
age,  and  no  one  has  a  right  to  deprive  me  of  my 
liberty.  I  shall  find  a  way  to  go.  Do  you  realize  the 
situation  ?  "  Her  mother  burst  into  tears. 

"  It's  horrible,"  she  made  her  way  to  the  stairs. 
"  Neither  of  you  think  of  me.  I  won't  stay  to  hear 
you  quarrel — I  can't  stand  it !  "  She  was  without  her 
lamp,  but  they  heard  her  shut  her  door.  It,  too,  the 
girl  thought,  was  being  locked  against  her.  That 
drew  on  her.  Paulter  laughed. 

"  Now,  say,"  he  whispered,  "  I  know  as  well  as  you 
when  a  hen  hatches  a  duck!  If  you  knew  how  much 
I  was  on  your  side,  you  old  handsome — "  It  brought 
her  to  remember  how  rarely  her  mother  had  left  her 
entirely  alone  with  him.  She  sought  the  piano.  "  Sure 
— whoop  her  up !  "  he  praised  the  move,  his  eyes  on 
the  full  softness  of  her  throat.  He  threw  himself  into 
the  armchair  and  searched  for  his  cigar-case.  It  was 


ETHEL'S    PLAN  297 

empty,  and  while  her  fingers  ran  over  the  keys  he 
glanced  at  the  stairs.  She  began  playing  snatches 
from  his  whistling  repertory  of  popular  airs,  mocking 
them  with  the  grandeur  of  her  accompaniment. 

"  I've  just  burned  up  all  the  tobacco  in  the  house," 
she  collectedly  said.  "  I'll  send  you  the  equivalent 
when  I  have  left  here.  I  was  looking  forward  to  this, 
and  I  didn't  want  you  to  be  filling  the  house  with  smoke 
all  night." 

"Oh,  it's  all  night!"  he  cheerfully  said.  "You 
think  I've  got  to  smoke  to  live.  Just  watch  me." 

He  feasted  his  eyes.  It  didn't  need  any  Georgiana 
Baine  or  any  coffee  to  keep  him  awake  to-night,  he 
chuckled,  putting  together  the  detached  items  of 
Georgiana's  half  confidences  about  Kendry.  Not  to 
smoke  made  him  sleepy  as  a  rule;  but  the  man  who 
couldn't  sit  to  any  length  of  time  before  that  swaying 
waist,  that  tumbled  hair,  that  clear,  browned  skin  of 
neck  and  arm — his  name  wasn't  Paulter.  His  imag- 
ination, unsoothed  by  its  habitual  narcotic,  warmed 
with  the  sight  of 'her  and  with  the  advancing  of  the 
hour.  Her  mother's  tread  was  no  longer  heard. 

"  This  is  like  married  life,"  he  laughed.  She  leaned 
from  the  keys  and  tossed  her  head  at  him  and  smiled — 
actually  smiled,  he  repeated  to  himself. 

"  Love  in  a  cottage,"  she  said,  her  hair  a  little  more 
disordered,  her  knee  rising  with  the  pedal.  Her  eye, 
while  for  lack  of  knowing  the  words,  she  hummed  the 
vapid  sentimental  song  of  the  moment,  seemed  to 


298  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

linger  where  she  best  could  be  aware  of  him.  And 
the  look  about  it  was  almost  wicked.  By  God,  the 
man  silently  slapped  himself,  women  were  strange  be- 
ings !  She  broke  into  an  air  he  was  certain  she  never 
had  heard  sung  on  the  stage :  its  invitation,  its  sugges- 
tion, if  it  had  come  to  her,  must  have  come  through 
the  music.  He  came  to  his  feet. 

"  Say,  you  could  just  tie  me  up  with  a  string  and 
dangle  me  on  your  ringer,  if  you  wanted  to,"  he  empha- 
sized, his  knee  against  the  piano  stool.  The  girl 
jumped  up  and  took  the  lamp. 

"  The  oil's  out,"  she  laughed.  He  was  ahead  of 
her  with  the  key  to  the  kitchen.  He  gallantly  took  the 
lamp  from  her  hand. 

"  The  prima  donna  don't  fill  any  lamps  in  this 
show !  "  he  said.  He  opened  the  door  to  the  rear 
veranda,  where  the  oil  can  was.  The  girl  strolled  back 
to  the  living  room.  The  can  was  empty.  He  heard 
her  leisurely  ascend  the  stairs.  There  was  no  more  oil 
to  be  found.  He  heard  Ethel  lock  herself  into  her 
room. 

It  made  him  dash  around  to  beneath  her  window. 
She  was  just  lighting  her  lamp. 

"Going  to  bed?"  he  said. 

"  I  shall  stay  here  till  you've  fallen  asleep  for  lack 
of  tobacco."  She  closed  the  window  and  drew  the 
shade.  His  disillusionment  was  as  if  she  had  thrown 
cold  water  down  on  him.  He  gave  a  hard  laugh. 

"Will  I?"  he  said. 


ETHEL'S    PLAN  299 

He  hurried  back  to  the  kitchen.  The  lamp  showed 
that  there  was  no  other  oil  can  hidden  there.  He  could 
hear  her  walking  about  in  her  room.  There  was  no 
oil  in  any  other  lamp.  There  was  no  candle  and  no 
matches,  save  what  he  had  in  his  pocket.  He  risked 
the  ascent  to  his  room — he  could  hear  if  she  opened 
her  window.  There  was  neither  tobacco  nor  lamp. 
If  he  slept,  she  was  going  to  steal  out — she  must  think 
he  was  easy!  He  would  stay  awake  till  Thursday 
morning,  if  necessary,  and  then  she  couldn't  beat  him 
up  that  steep  trail.  He  chuckled  his  scorn. 

He  went  alertly  back  to  the  kitchen.  She  had  for- 
gotten the  oil-stove — there  was  enough  fuel  in  it  to 
boil  a  little  water.  Coffee,  of  course !  He  searched  the 
cupboards  by  its  light.  There  was  no  coffee  and  there 
was  no  tea.  All  right.  There  was  an  Arthur  Paulter. 
She'd  have  a  chance  to  get  acquainted  with  him. 

He  couldn't  remember  a  shred  of  tobacco  in  any 
pocket;  he  couldn't  recall  where  he  had  abandoned  a 
half -smoked  cigar.  He  came  out  on  the  gravel  walk 
again.  Her  light  burned.  He  was  accustomed  to  late 
hours,  and  she  wasn't,  he  reflected.  She  would  read, 
and  that  would  make  her  eyes  heavy.  There  was  just 
one  more  thing  he  wanted  to  know.  He  stole  back. 
He  once  had  given  her  a  pistol,  the  year  when  the 
pistol  had  come  back  to  dispute  the  field  with  the 
revolver.  It  was  his  first  and  only  gift.  It  had  rather 
pleased  her,  but  it  had  frightened  her  mother.  In  tfre 
new  house  they  had  agreed  that  it  should  remain  un- 


300  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

touched  in  a  cupboard  of  its  own.  It  was  gone.  All 
right — he  wasn't  going  to  climb  up  a  ladder  to  her 
window,  and  have  her  say  she  had  thought  he  was  a 
burglar !  He  would  settle  himself  for  a  test  of  endur- 
ance, and  she  should  not  have  the  satisfaction  of  hear- 
ing from  him. 

The  moon  was  rising.  It  made  the  shadows  of  the 
living  room  gloomy  to  one  whose  eye  must  not  close. 
He  placed  a  table  across  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and 
piled  it  high  with  books  in  unstable  equilibrium.  He 
put  on  his  overcoat,  and  brought  out  a  stool  to  the 
veranda.  Even  if  he  were  foolish  enough  to  risk  run- 
ning down  to  the  village  after  cigars  the  stores  would 
be  closed  and  deserted.  On  the  stool,  without  a  back, 
if  he  went  to  sleep  he  would  fall,  and  that  would 
awaken  him. 

But  for  some  hours  he  had  no  further  tendency 
toward  sleep.  He  was  not  used  to  solitude,  to  self- 
contemplation ;  they  made  him  melancholy,  they 
brought  a  kind  of  fear.  She  was  up  there,  and  he  was 
out  in  the  moral  cold.  He  wasn't  making  good  with 
her.  He  could  have  been  at  the  Golden  Bow- Wow 
in  town,  with  a  fat  cigar  in  his  teeth  and  a  drink  at 
hand,  some  one  trying  for  all  she  was  worth  to  make 
good  with  him.  Instead  he  sat  here  with  not  even  the 
old  hen  poking  her  head  out  to  commiserate  him. 
Here  he  was,  going  up  against  a  man  that  would  land 
him  in  a  mahogany  overcoat  if  he  wasn't  quick 
enough — and  what  was  A.  Paulter  going  to  get  out 


ETHEL'S    PLAN  301 

of  that,  either  way  ?  Say,  had  the  two  of  them  planned 
this  out  togther  ?  Was  Kendry  off  in  the  woods  some- 
where ?  He  put  his  pistol  in  his  overcoat  pocket.  Let 
him  come!  He  began  pacing  up  and  down  the 
veranda,  stopping  at  the  sound. of  a  night-bird,  a  prowl- 
ing dog.  There  was  wearily  no  sign  from  above. 
Her  light  shone  mysteriously  on  her  white  curtain. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

VEILED   LADY 


THEY  listened.  The  moonlight  was  a  narrow  strip 
between  thick  redwoods,  through  which  the  road  from 
the  level  of  the  marsh  had  become  a  winding  lane. 

"  Now  what's  a  bloomin'  motor  doin'  up  'ere,  this 
time  o'  night  ?  "  the  other  man  whispered.  "  'Old 
on  !  "  he  commanded,  when  Collins  nervously  turned. 
"  You  know  'ow  to  run  a  car  !  " 

"  They  ain't  been  a  pair  of  wheels  up  here  all  this 
week,"  Collins  said.  "  You  say  you're  wanted.  That 
automobile  is  about  how  a  sheriff's  posse  sounds  to 
me.  I'm  —  "  The  other  caught  him  by  a  thin  arm. 

"  No,  you  ain't,  you  little  pair  o'  wings  !  "  he  blew 
an  alcoholic  breath  across  one  of  Collins'  great  ears. 
"  Don't  talk  like  a  bloomin'  fife.  Now,  Gawd  knows 
what  your  name  is,  Mr.  Collins,  but  mine's  Pink. 
That's  my  real  name,  arsk  Scotland  Yard.  I've  just 
remembered  it.  And  I  never  'ave  walked  when  I 
could  ride.  They're  keepin'  an  'emp  necktie  for  me, 
but  your  'andsome  little  nut  they  only  want  to  shave. 
Whereby,  it's  me  that  are  the  'eadpiece  of  this  lovely 
pair  o'  twins,"  he  held  his  arm  around  Collins'  neck. 
"  So  you  just  'eave  alongside."  Collins  laughed. 

302 


THE    VEILED    LADY  303 

"  I  see  you're  accustomed  to  having  your  own  way, 
Mr.  Pink,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  of  surrender.  He 
ducked  from  Pink's  arm  and  became  invisible  in  the 
gloom  of  the  redwoods. 

Pink  contemplated  the  black  shades  and  heard  the 
footfalls  cease  at  a  safe  distance. 

"  You  know  what  you  remind  me  ? "  he  called. 
"  You  remind  me  of  an  'at  pin  and  two  palm-leaf  fans. 
You  aren't  a  man;  you're  an  inseck." 

The  automobile  had  maintained  its  heavy  "  chug  " 
in  and  out  of  the  ravines.  Pink  jammed  his  cap  over 
his  eyes.  He  softly  stepped  behind  a  thick  bush.  As 
the  automobile  ascended  around  the  curve  and  a  soli- 
tary figure  showed  in  it,  Pink  jumped  alongside. 

"  'Ands  up — 'igh  with  'em !  "  he  said,  over  two 
pistols. 

Almost  at  once  the  solitary  figure  uttered  a  small 
scream.  The  car  stopped,  its  vitals  whirring  in  the 
exact  state  of  a  frightened  woman's  heart.  Two 
gloved  hands  sought  to  shut  away  the  sight  of  the 
pistols.  A  voice  from  a  heaving  bosom  whimpered : 

"O,  dear !" 

Mr.  Pink  peered  nearer,  over  the  sights.  His 
shoulders  began  to  shake.  He  appealed  to  the 
darkness. 

"It's  a  fee-myle— "  he  exploded.  "Come  back 
'ere,  you  little  skelington,  do  you  want  to  cawmper- 
mise  my  reputytion  ?  "  The  lady  was  examining  him 
through  her  fingers.  Pink  turned  the  pistols  to  her. 


304  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

"Did  you  say  the  gentleman  was  walkin'  on  be'ind, 
mum  ?  "  he  narrowly  asked.  The  lady  drew  back  and 
despairingly  shook  her  head  beneath  her  veil. 

"  O,  dear !  "  she  squeaked. 

"  O,  yes,  mum,"  Pink  enthusiastically  pocketed  his 
pistols,  "  that's  what  the  lydies  usually  calls  me." 
Again  he  turned.  "  Do  you  'ear,  you  shiverin'  little 
bacteria?  Come  out  o'  your  'ole.  Now,  mum,  we'll 
back  'er  'round  easy,"  he  deferentially  pushed  the  car. 
The  lady  helped  by  a  turn  of  the  wheel.  Collins  ap- 
peared, his  pistol  preceding.  "  Nothin'  to  fear,  mum, 
only  a  loose  wood-nymph."  Pink  casually  tossed  his 
head.  "  Now,  mum,  me  an*  you  in  the  back  seat." 
The  lady  alighted  heavily  on  the  side  away  from  him, 
her  veil  and  cloak  obscuring  all  but  the  fact  of  her 
immensity.  She  pulled  herself  up  with  an  obese  groan. 
"  Hexcellent,  mum,"  said  Pink,  "  and  makin'  up  in 
bulk  any  trifle  of  beauty  you've  mislaid.  Climb  up, 
kebby,"  he  gave  Collins  a  dig  in  the  ribs.  Collins 
seemed  to  be  wanting  in  humor. 

"  Let  her  walk,"  he  said.  "  It  won't  hurt  her.  Take 
my  advice."  Pink  whistled. 

"  Did  you  'ear  'im,  mum — the  blasted  hinterloper ! 
I  wouldn't  mind  cuttin'  'is  ears  off,  mum,  if  the  wind 
wasn't  be'ind  us."  The  car  was  fitted  with  a  collapsi- 
ble hood  which  he  found  he  could  raise  and  throw 
so  that  its  quarter  circle  went  forward  of  the  rear  seat 
and  shut  Collins  from  view.  "  Now,  you,"  he  called 
over  it,  from  tiptoes,  "  drive  on  to  you-know-where, 


THE    VEILED    LADY  305 

or  I'm  just  as  hapt  to  come  and  'urt  your  feelin's,  you 
bloomin'  houtsider." 

They  began  to  roll  down  the  hill.  The  lady,  retired 
to  a  corner,  appeared  to  be  soaking  up  the  tears  with 
her  veil. 

"  What — rain  ?  "  Pink  leaned  toward  her.  "  I  say, 
this  is  hagitatin'.  My  word,  mum,  I  can't  stand  it. 
Arsk  me  anything — arsk  me  for  myself,  mum,  an*  you 
shall  'ave  it.  '  O,  stow  them  crystal  drops ' — as  the 
poet  'as  it." 

So  it  happened,  by  the  charm  of  his  silver  tongue 
and  from  a  yearning  for  a  communion  that  for  several 
years  had  been  denied  to  him  by  stern  authority,  Mr. 
Pink  brought  the  lady's  great  arm  to  pass  around  his 
neck  and  fondle  his  elbow,  while  his  own  right  arm 
went  about  a  hard  waist  that  was  slim  only  when  com- 
pared to  the  stuffed  bosom  above  it.  The  lady's  free 
hand  caressed  his  bristly  jowl  and  she  murmured  in 
self-deprecation  a  single  "  O,  dear !  "  Mr.  Pink  would 
have  liked  to  roll  on  the  ground,  to  express  his  sense 
of  the  situation.  "  You're  a  rippin'  old  couple  of 
tons,"  he  tittered.  Presently  he  wanted  to  scratch  his 
nose. 

It  took  him  a  moment  to  realize  that  his  arms  had 
passed  out  of  his  control.  The  lady's  weight  against 
the  seat  was  immovable.  Her  gloved  hand  entered 
his  mouth  and  held  his  jaw  as  if  it  had  been  a  wolf's. 
Pink  tried  to  lower  his  head  and  to  bite,  hoping  to 
squirm  to  the  floor.  A  turn  of  his  wrist,  reckless  of 


306  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

the  anatomy  of  his  elbow,  brought  from  him  an  impo- 
tent groan. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Collins'  voice  complained. 

"  O,  dear !  "  trie  lady  squeaked,  with  like  impatience. 
They  had  reached  the  level  of  the  marsh.  Collins  had 
made  acquaintance  with  the  car.  He  turned  north- 
ward and  let  out  speed.  Pink  sat  with  his  eyes  fast- 
ened on  the  veil.  The  face  behind  it  was  making  a 
long  inspection  of  him,  with  Pink's  elbow  uncomfort- 
able enough  to  remind  him  of  what  excruciation  might 
follow  his  stirring.  He  limply  awaited  his  opportu- 
nity, but  the  slow  shake  of  that  hidden  head  was  too 
chilling  to  his  heart.  He  kicked  and  snorted  in  a  wild 
effort  to  be  heard;  the  car  roared  at  top  speed,  and 
the  lady  added  a  confusing  scream. 

"  O,  cut  it  out,"  Collins  called.  Under  his  breath 
he  cursed  the  half-drunken  fool  for  carrying  with  them 
a  witness  to  their  flight.  Pink  had  received  a  blow 
with  the  side  of  the  hand,  in  the  fashion  of  a  saber  cut, 
at  the  top  of  his  nose.  It  blinded  him  while  he  sought 
his  pistols.  He  was  thrust  over  the  back  of  the  seat 
and  his  hands  beat  about  in  the  flying  dust  down  into 
which  he  could  not  keep  himself  from  sliding.  They 
clutched  at  the  passing  ground;  it  cut  out  his  palms. 
The  dust  was  solidly  filling  his  lungs  and  he  could  not 
double  himself  because  his  face  brought  up  against  the 
slippery  overhanging  body  of  the  car.  Three  miles 
away  was  a  blur  of  lights  from  a  creek-boat  coming 
down  toward  the  bay.  Pink  cried  out  to  it  with  all  his 


THE    VEILED    LADY  307 

might  from  a  bloody  mouth.    Chan  Kow  lowered  the 
ankles  and  let  the  head  bounce  once  on  the  ground. 

The  head  bounced  once  on  the  white  streak  in  the 
moonlight  and  was  hauled  up  a  few  inches.  Chan 
Kow  took  a  restful  breath,  his  knees  braced  against 
the  seat-back,  his  fingers  sunk  in  the  flesh  above  the 
ankle  bones.  His  muscular  sensations  carried  him 
back  to  the  man-power  boat  on  the  Canton  River.  It 
was  a  far  cry  from  then  and  there  to  this  reckless 
motor  car  which  made  the  hilltops  dance  and  dissolve. 
What  a  wonderful  variety  human  existence  was  capa- 
ble of,  he  mused,  staring  at  the  head  and  shoulders 
that  writhed  and  took  on  the  color  of  the  dust.  But 
Western  civilization,  from  his  thirty  years'  experience 
of  it,  was  a  failure.  It  was,  he  held,  like  this  per- 
son Pink,  irretrievably  upside  down.  It  began  at  the 
wrong  end.  John  Kendry's  idea,  in  which  there  still 
was  the  fatal  taint  of  Christianity,  was  to  upbuild  the 
beautiful,  rather  than  to  destroy  the  hideous :  witness 
the  vague  ethical  reluctance  with  which  Kendry  ap- 
proached the  business  of  destroying  such  a  man  as 
Paulter!  Chan  Kow  leaned' over  and  let  the  face 
scrape  along  the  road ;  probably  the  first  twenty  feet 
had  eliminated  the  features,  if  one  could  see  through 
the  dust.  The  figure  of  his  thus  making  a  grindstone 
of  the  earth  pleased  his  fancy,  though  he  saw  no  way 
to  complete  the  figure  in  bringing  in  the  name  of  the 
late  Mr.  Pink.  There  was  less  convulsion  in  the  tendo 
Achilles;  the  toes  no  longer  worked.  Western  civili- 


308  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

zation  undeniably  had  accomplished  great  things ;  but, 
owing  to  its  intrinsic  error,  it  would  evanesce ;  whereas 
the  Orient  already  was  stirring  from  its  long  and 
refreshing  slumber.  He  let  go  one  ankle  and  held 
the  other  with  both  hands,  varying  the  effect.  In  the 
short  spaces  of  comparative  smoothness  the  thing 
dragged  like  a  stone  on  a  string.  For  a  moment  he 
saw  it  receding  behind,  where  it  had  rolled  and  un- 
folded and  lay  motionless.  A  turn  in  the  road  hid  it. 
He  could  not  help  recalling  those  lines  he  had  written 
while  the  poisoned  Ting  Lee  had  pounded  about  the 
floor  on  his  heels  and  the  back  of  his  head.  He  threw 
away  Pink's  empty  shoe  and  sat  down  to  mop  the 
copious  perspiration  from  his  forehead.  Some  day, 
he  breathed,  old  age  would  come  creeping  into  his 
thews.  He  readjusted  the  veil.  He  pulled  back  the 
hood  and  collapsed  it.  Collins'  speed  was  too  danger- 
ous, and  it  was  in  the  wrong  direction.  He  calculated 
the  thickness  of  Collins'  skull. 

"  O,  dear ! "  he  squeaked,  forcibly  pulling  Collins' 
shoulder.  Collins  snatched  a  look  behind  him.  Pink 
was  not  to  be  seen  and  the  old  lady  was  pointing  panic- 
stricken  to  the  rear.  Collins  set  his  brake. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  he  evilly  said,  dropping  the 
wheel. 

Not  too  heavily  Chan  Kow  brought  down  the  butt 
of  his  American  pistol. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

A   SELF-DISCOVERY 

BEFORE  sunrise,  when  Paulter  leaned  with  a  hand  on 
the  post  of  the  pergola,  a  dull  and  dogged  figure  in  a 
cap  and  overcoat,  there  was  a  sound  on  the  stairs.  He 
slid  to  fill  the  doorway. 

"  It's  I,"  Violet  Marr  tremulously  said,  from  the 
half-light  at  the  bottom  step.  Paulter  let  her  push 
aside  the  obstructing  table  and  pick  up  the  pile  of  un- 
steady books  that  fell  as  he  had  arranged  them  to.  His 
haggardness  kept  her  eyes  averted.  If  he  did  not  see 
that  she,  too,  had  not  slept,  that  now  she  sought  from 
him  the  sympathetic  word,  the  acknowledgment  of 
what  she  was  sacrificing  in  peace  for  him,  she  laid  it 
to  his  discomfort,  which  in  turn  she  laid  upon  her 
daughter. 

"  You  go  down  and  buy  me  some  cigars  and  some 
coffee  and  some  whiskey,"  he  pointed  to  her,  hoarsely 
voiced.  "  I'm  awake.  She  don't  take  that  kind  of  a 
rise  out  of  me."  His  tone  swept  her  to  obey.  Her 
fingers  trembled  with  her  hat.  She  sought  another 
hat  pin,  flustered  by  his  contemptuous  impatience. 

"  Say,  how  old  are  you  ?  "  he  groaned  at  last.  She 
raised  her  handkerchief. 

309 


310  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

"  I  was  fifty  years  old  yesterday,"  her  tearfulness 
exasperated  him.  "  No  one  thought  of  it." 

"  Well,  you  act  like  you  was  ninety,"  he  waved. 
"  Get  a  move  on." 

She  forewent  the  hat  pin.  She  faded  from  the 
house,  pale  under  her  gray  hat,  slight  and  purposeless 
of  mien.  He  spat  from  the  veranda. 

"  You  act  as  if  you  was  ninety,"  he  corrected  him- 
self, aloud,  with  a  glance  at  the  corner  that  hid  Ethel's 
window.  To  have  heard  would  have  carried  her  back 
to  her  first  knowledge  of  him.  She  had  undertaken  the 
reformation  of  his  speech,  of  his  outlook  as  to  many 
things,  forgetting  his  maturity  and  accepting  his  plausi- 
ble manner.  In  an  episode  of  which  her  beauty  had 
been  the  exciting  cause  her  disillusionment  had  come 
with  sudden  horror  to  a  girl  of  sixteen.  But  she  had 
never  told  her  mother ;  it  seemed,  too,  possible,  that  her 
ears,  her  understanding,  had  played  her  false.  Out  of 
the  repugnant  aloofness  that  never  afterward  quit  her 
his  sentimental  view  had  grown,  increasing  as  time 
added  to  her  mystery.  Her  generosity  to  him  had 
never  been  tinged  with  romance,  but  for  Paulter  it 
was  impossible  to  believe  that.  He  had  continued  to 
visit  the  house  on  the  hill,  under  Violet  Marr's  plea 
that  they  were  spiritualizing  him.  Why  she  was  at- 
tached to  him  he  could  not  have  guessed  if  his  mind 
had  owned  an  average  habit  of  introspection,  but  the 
fact  comforted  his  pride.  In  her  married  youth  a  sea 
captain's  wife  had  been  offered  opportunities  for  aban- 


A    SELF-DISCOVERY  311 

donment,  but  her  vital  content  was  strangely  assorted. 
From  her  husband  she  never  had  had  the  absolute 
domination  she  could  have  wished  for.  He  desper- 
ately had  striven  to  foster  her  will,  her  self-reliance. 
Arthur  Paulter  had  come  into  her  life  when  she 
was  forty-six.  His  ascendency  was  without  con- 
science; she  surrendered  her  rights  of  volition  in  ex- 
change for  a  sense  of  rest  that  all  her  life  she  had 
awaited;  passion  was  dead,  and  to  her  it  seemed  that 
she  gave  him  nothing  in  exchange.  It  was  enough 
for  Paulter  that  she  kept  him  within  reach  of  her 
daughter. 

He  went  in  and  sat  astride  of  the  end  of  the  sofa. 
Soon  he  would  be  able  to  revive  himself.  His  tendency 
to  collapse  on  the  soft  surface  so  near  at  hand — that 
was  what  Ethel  was  playing  for.  He  jumped  up  and 
paced  the  veranda  again,  muttering  ironies  on  the  old 
woman's  slowness.  The  sun  brought  warmth.  He 
threw  off, his  overcoat  and  then  his  coat,  to  enjoy  that 
freedom  in  shirt-sleeves  which  to  him  meant  home. 
He  had  denied  himself  this  since  he  had  come  here, 
and  now  he  looked  upon  such  denial  as  a  weakness. 
He  would  congratulate  Ethel  on  a  pleasant  night  when 
she  came  down.  With  coffee  and  tobacco,  for  which 
she  was  accustomed  to  no  equivalent,  he  could  stay  on 
end  for  a  week  of  days  and  nights,  if  need  be.  During 
the  hour  before  to-morrow's  dawn  he  should  not  be 
able  to  prevent  her  from  following  him  up  the  moun- 
tain, but  he  would  make  the  pace  so  hot  that,  whatso- 


312  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

ever  her  purpose  was,  he  should  have  done  with  Ken- 
dry  before  she  arrived  to  accomplish  it.  He  had  her 
hooked ;  let  her  thresh  the  waters. 

In  her  room  Ethel  stared  at  the  wooden  ceiling.  In 
the  first  blank  moments  her  face  was  like  the  one  that 
had  looked  down  on  Kendry,  questioning  the  forces 
his  unconscious  form  had  been  the  first  to  stir  within 
her.  If  instead  of  letting  this  new  room  go  in  its 
intrinsic  ugliness,  as  she  had  let  the  one  go  on  the 
hill,  she  had  been  at  pains  to  stamp  herself  on  it,  in 
the  furniture,  the  colors,  she  did  not  trace  her  reason 
for  that  to  what  Kendry  might  be  expected  to  fancy 
her  doing.  But  a  glance  about  her  brought  him  to 
her  mind  and  set  on  her  face  the  altered  expression  he 
had  caused  to  write  itself  there. 

She  felt  for  the  key  of  her  room  and  for  the  pistol 
under  her  pillow.  The  night  light  burned  near  her 
window,  the  sign,  for  Paulter,  of  a  sleepless  vigil  in 
the  hope  of  escape.  Her  khaki  suit,  her  high  boots, 
lay  rolled  in  her  golf  cape  and  tied  in  a  sheet,  with  a 
laundry  list  pinned  to  it.  It  was  her  first  deception 
where  deception  had  been  expected  of  her  for  weeks. 
It  made  her  flush,  avoiding  her  eyes  in  the  mirror  while 
she  combed  out  the  heavy  braids  and  arranged  her 
hair  with  severe  compactness  that  would  suit  a  hooded 
head  plunging  through  dense  chaparral.  Her  muscles 
played  beneath  the  roundness  of  her  arms.  Her  blood 
bounded  more  anxiously  under  her  translucent  skin. 
She  took  no  pleasure  in  the  full  modeling  x>f  her  throat 


A    SELF-DISCOVERY  313 

and  cheek,  in  the  firmness,  beneath  sheer  fabric,  of  a 
bust  from  whose  quarter-round  her  garment  fell  in  a 
straight  line  to  her  feet.  The  man  below  was  cursing 
the  absence  of  her  mother.  It  was  her  slimness,  her 
comparative  feebleness  of  bone  she  saw  in  the  glass. 
The  man  was  a  savage.  The  pistol  frightened  her. 
She  hid  it  in  the  bag  she  was  accustomed  to  carry  at 
her  belt. 

Her  dressing  as  she  had  dressed  the  night  before 
suggested  an  excursion  no  farther  than  the  garden. 
The  open  throat  was  grateful  to  the  expectancy  that 
began  to  oppress  her. 

Paulter's  cigar  had  not  waited  for  his  breakfast. 
She  heard  him  toss  a  condescending  word  to  her 
mother.  He  locked  the  front  door,  braced  to  a  show 
of  freshness.  Ethel  passed  him  with  half -closed  eyes, 
letting  her  bundle  drop  where  it  might  on  the  floor. 
She  sighed  and  leaned  with  her  forehead  touching  the 
window  pane.  He  kicked  the  bundle,  but  it  was  her 
attitude  of  weariness  that  preoccupied  him. 

"Little  shy  on  a  night's  sleep?"  he  blew  a  cloud 
toward  her.  She  came  again  past  him,  without 
acknowledging  his  presence.  One  understood,  she  was 
saying  to  herself,  to  what  ignominious  depths  of  duplic- 
ity women  were  brought  by  the  forms  of  tyranny. 
She  took  up  the  unopened  newspaper  and  sank  into 
the  armchair.  While  he  settled  himself  on  the  sofa 
close  by  she  gazed  at  the  print  without  reading,  until 
her  eye  caught  the  name  of  Collins  in  a  headline.  It 


314  JOHN   KENDRTS   IDEA 

was  a  name  from  that  region  in  which  Paulter  did 
things  he  was  never  voluble  about.  The  brief  dis- 
patch, inserted  on  an  after  page,  told  of  Collins  being 
discovered  long  after  midnight  by  the  sheriff  of  Marin 
County,  hog-bound  and  in  a  stupor  at  the  sheriff's 
door.  The  woman  who  had  thundered  on  the  panels 
had  whisked  into  thin  air  in  an  automobile — the  im- 
pression that  she  was  a  woman  had  been  helped  by  her 
having  carried  away  a  mud-guard  against  a  tree-box 
at  the  corner  of  the  street.  Collins,  recovering,  had 
announced  that  he  would  turn  state's  evidence,  con- 
fessing to  his  career  as  a  counterfeiter,  and  incriminat- 
ing persons — the  sheriff  did  not  offer  their  names  for 
publicity — to  whom  Collins  laid  his  discomfiture. 

It  was  news  that  might  prove  too  stimulating  to 
him  whose  eyes  inclined  to  droop.  She  let  her  own 
lids  sleepily  close,  then  opened  them  as  if  determined 
not  to  drowse.  She  was  aware  of  a  smile  flickering 
about  Paulter's  thin  lips  through  the  haze  of  smoke. 
If  he  responded  to  her  generous  yawn  it  was  by  a 
distension  of  his  nostrils,  as  he  brought  his  feet  to  a 
level  with  his  head.  She  let  her  cheek  turn  to  the 
corner  of  the  chair  back.  From  a  deep  sigh  the  move- 
ment of  her  bosom  changed  to  a  light  heaving.  Her 
mother  walked  on  tiptoe ;  the  kettle  sang  in  the  kitchen. 
Paulter  gave  a  start  and  resumed  his  cigar. 

"  It's  so  stuffy,"  the  girl  murmured,  without  opening 
her  eyes.  She  heard  her  mother  trying  to  open  the 
farthest  window  without  their  hearing  her.  Presently 


A    SELF-DISCOVERY  315 

she  heard  a  sound  in  Paulter's  nostrils.  Her  mother 
stole  about  drawing  the  shades,  then  the  stars  gave 
evidence  of  her  retirement  above.  A  blue-jay  harshly 
reinforced  the  morning  chorus  of  birds  against  the 
silence  of  the  redwoods.  There  came  the  unpleasant 
odor  of  an  extinguished  cigar. 

She  took  off  her  weight  on  the  arms  of  her  chair. 
She  slid  along  by  the  wall,  where  the  floor  creaked 
least,  and  came  out  of  the  house  by  the  window. 

A  hundred  yards  away  in  a  tangle  of  hazel  and  wild 
honeysuckle,  a  little  down  the  incline  off  the  road,  she 
could  have  heard  his  tread  on  the  veranda,  his  burst 
of  rage.  She  laced  her  boots  in  peace,  recovering  her 
breath,  gaining  in  spirit  with  this  first  success.  She 
was  free,  but  Paulter  was  recuperating.  The  butcher's 
boy  came  driving  up  in  his  two-wheeled  cart.  The 
road  was  on  a  ridge  that  ran  south  from  the  mountain 
and  abruptly  finished  at  the  joint  debouchment  of  the 
two  canons  the  ridge  divided.  Her  smile,  her  hair 
with  the  dry  leaves  caught  in  it,  her  jaunty  skirt  and 
the  shapeliness  of  pliant  leather  at  her  ankles,  made  the 
boy  her  blushing  servitor.  He  had  her  at  his  side 
while  he  sped  his  horse  down  the  hill  in  keeping  with 
the  manliness  swelling  in  his  bosom.  As  they  went 
the  number  of  dwellings  increased.  Ethel  stopped  the 
baker  and  bought  bread. 

"  You'll  find  Mr.  Paulter  asleep  in  the  living  room," 
she  said.  "  Please  knock  on  the  window  and  tell  him 
I  asked  you  to."  The  butcher's  boy  waited  to  see  her 


316  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

% 

fly  bareheaded  down  a  path,  her  belt  bag  in  hand,  her 
cape  dangling  from  its  shoulder  straps.  She  had  asked 
him  casually  about  the  trail  on  the  opposite  ridge.  He 
resumed  his  upward  journey,  glowing  with  memory. 
For  her  the  running1,  after  a  night  behind  shut  panes 
was  agreeable  to  the  lungs.  She  crossed  the  stream. 
The  "  commuters  "  who  took  the  first  morning  train 
to  the  city  saw  her  among  tree  trunks,  marching  up 
over  dead  leaves.  Above  where  they  lived  the  slopes 
were  barren,  save  for  the  grass.  The  cattle  of  a  passed 
period,  cropping  it  on  rain-soaked  soil,  had  cut  the  in- 
cline into  close,  narrow  terraces.  At  the  top  were  trees 
again,  and  she  looked  across  the  canon  to  the  road  she 
had  driven  on.  Her  heart  beat  evenly  and  her  color 
gloried.  All  the  clocks  in  the  world  were  ticking  the 
time  between  now  and  to-morrow's  dawn,  and  to  be 
leading  Paulter  on,  making  him  expend  himself,  caused 
her  teeth  to  shut  and  her  fists  to  clench.  The  butcher's 
boy,  visible  through  gaps  in  the  opposite  foliage,  was 
driving  fast  again,  with  a  man  whose  shoulders 
crowded  him,  whose  compulsion  made  him  pale  with 
angry  fear.  She  swung  the  scarlet  side  of  her  cape 
to  catch  their  eyes.  She  moved  as  if  to  keep  along  the 
ridge  where  she  was  until  it  joined  the  steeper  ascents 
of  the  mountain,  more  than  an  hour  to  the  north. 
Paulter  plunged  down  the  path  in  pursuit  of  her,  as 
she  had  wished. 

Under    cover    of    a    ravine    presently    she,    too, 
descended,  but  at  an  avoiding  angle.     It  brought  her 


A    SELF-DISCOVERY  317 

up  through  the  dense  redwoods  on  her  own  side  of  the 
canon,  leisurely  to  her  mother's  door. 

"  You've  spoiled  it,"  her  mother  said,  not  without 
belief  that  in  this  return  she  had  cause  for  triumphing. 
"  He  would  have  slept.  I  put  bromide  in  his  coffee. 
He  believes  you've  gone  to  meet  him.  He's  grown 
desperate.  You'll  have  to  get  down  on  your  knees 
to  him." 

Her  ineffectualness  brought  a  flash  of  color  to  her 
cheek.  Ethel  was  pointing  through  the  window,  across 
the  canon,  to  the  figure  that  hastened  northward  on 
the  ridge. 

"  He  thinks  I've  kept  behind  the  trees,  mother.  I'm 
trying  to  tire  him  out,  on  account  of  to-morrow.  Tell 
him  that  if  you  like.  He  won't  believe  it.  You  don't 
believe  it.  I  have  made  it  my  first  principle  to  be 
frank  with  you,  but  you  think  I  have  an  appointment 
to-day  with  Mr.  Kendry.  You've  ceased  to  trust  me, 
and  I  can't  live  with  you.  It's  an  odious  happening." 

Her  mother  laid  a  hand  on  the  newel-post.  She 
tried  for  once  to  keep  fixed  upon  her  daughter's  eyes. 

"  There's  something  I  don't  know,"  she  huskily 
began,  her  voice  mounting,  "  and  that  means  that  if 
you  do  go  away,  some  day  you'll  want  to  come  back. 
You'll  want  to  shiver  behind  your  mother  and  tell  her 
how  you  hate  that  man." 

The  eyes  had  widened  and  intensified.  They  left 
to  Violet  Marr  no  resource  but  tears.  Their  effect 
was  unexpected. 


318  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

"  Mother,"  the  girl  trembled,  "  it  isn't  your  best  self 
I'm  going  from.  If  ever  you're  alone  and  you  want 
me,  I'll  come.  Won't  you  kiss  me  ?  " 

Her  mother  bowed  upon  the  newel-post,  wet-eyed, 
but  not  sobbing.  The  girl  looked  about  at  the  long- 
familiar  articles  they  had  brought  to  this  pleasanter 
place.  There  were  gifts  from  her  mother,  relics  of 
her  father,  things  that  her  baby  fingers  had  reached 
for.  The  portrait  of  her  father  was  on  the  wall ;  under 
it  were  the  ashes  of  Paulter's  cigar,  his  hat,  and  his 
blackthorn  stick.  She  remembered  another  door,  an- 
other sunlight,  out  into  which  she  had  seen  her  father 
go,  smiling  at  his  daughter's  tears. 

"Mother?"  she  broke. 

That  strange  half-smile  played  about  her  mother's 
mouth.  Without  a  glance  Violet  Marr  mounted  the 
stairs.  There  came  the  sound  of  her  door  locking. 

The  girl  went  out  to  the  veranda  and  looked  over 
to  the  city.  It  glittered,  awaiting  her  beauty,  her 
slender  purse,  for  what  it  could  wring  out  of  her  or  for 
what  it  must  yield  to  her.  Perhaps  it  would  nourish 
her  rather  kindly,  in  the  terms  of  the  commonplace, 
the  unimaginative,  the  dull  grind  of  the  unaspiring. 
The  city  was  not  the  mountain.  After  she  had  sacri- 
ficed on  the  mountain — her  pride,  her  strength,  her 
reckless  presence  at  the  moment  when  these  men  should 
meet,  the  city  would  take  her  and  the  mountain  never 
again  know  her  in  its  intimate  way  of  yore.  If  her 
father  had  lived  it  would  have  been  different ;  he  would 


A    SELF-DISCOVERY  319 

have  made  himself  live  on  in  her ;  she  would  have  been 
the  first  consideration  in  his  life.  She  straightened. 
He  should  survive  in  her.  Somewhere  in  the  mid-seas 
he  had  gone  down,  unrecorded,  untraced.  It  was  not 
necessary  for  his  daughter  to  be  told  how  his  blue 
eyes  had  faced  the  end.  They  were  like  her  eyes; 
the  situation  was  a  little  different,  but  she  would  try, 
as  he  had  confronted  merciful  death,  to  confront  the 
greater  agony  of  life.  She  hurried  on  her  predeter- 
mined course. 

Chan  Kow's  answer  awaited  her  at  the  post  office : 
"  There  are  things  which  must  be  left  to  Fate.  This 
is  one  of  them."  It  failed  to  echo  his  prophetic  linking 
of  her  name  with  Mr.  Kendry's.  It  sounded  to  her  like 
the  first  of  more  than  one  farewell.  She  turned  again 
toward  the  mountain,  this  time  by  the  westward  canon, 
which  would  lead  her  to  where  Paulter  would  expect 
to  find  her,  and  bring  her  there  before  him.  In  two 
hours  she  sat  on  the  western  summit,  a  little  fatigued, 
none  inspirited.  She  was  prepared  to  do  so  much,  to 
do  it  so  intensely,  from  motives  which,  most  of  all 
to  Kendry,  would  seem  so  insufficient.  If  she  rushed 
in,  if  nothing  in  the  working  out  of  the  event  to-mor- 
row seemed  to  justify  her  presence,  how  could  she 
give  it  dignity  in  his  eyes.  She  had  been  going  to 
justify  it  by  a  lofty  reference  to  the  idea,  to  his  value 
to  humanity,  to  her  obsession  that  he  must  survive. 
She  still  could  frame  the  words,  but  would  they  be 
less  than  hypocrisy? 


320  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

Through  the  chaparral  she  could  see  to  a  path  that 
forked  and  encircled  the  rounded  summit,  then  became 
one  again  on  the  seaward  side.  Where  she  looked, 
Paulter,  if  he  continued  his  fancied  pursuit  of  her, 
woulcj  pass.  A  mile  beyond  stood  the  lone  tree,  where 
he  would  go  in  the  hope  of  finding  her  with  Kendry. 
No  trail  led  to  where  she  had  spread  her  cape ;  people 
who  climbed  the  mountain  followed  the  railroad  to  the 
other  summit.  Perhaps  she  would  wait  in  vain.  But 
it  was  the  logical  thing  to  do,  and,  doing  it,  such  a  mind 
as  Kendry's  would  have  waited  in  a  kind  of  peace,  she 
thought,  peace  such  as  she  could  not  know. 

It  was  because  he  could  thus  intellectually  proceed, 
following  the  finer  instincts,  the  spiritual  way,  to 
wheresoever  they  might  lead,  that  chance  would  be  his 
enemy — chance  that,  by  upsetting  the  calculations  of 
such  men,  ever  had  preserved  the  balance  between 
them  and  strains  like  Arthur  Paulter's.  Kendry  would 
have  thought  of  that,  too,  and  he  would  have  come 
decided  as  to  his  attitude  toward  death;  he  would 
come,  in  short,  knowing  himself.  That  was  where 
he  was  superior,  where  she  failed.  He  never  would 
stay  unstably  contemplating  Mary  Eastwood ;  he  would 
examine  himself  to  the  last  shred  and  he  would  dis- 
cover just  the  value  Mary  Eastwood  had  for  him. 
And  in  this  great  commotion  approaching  to-morrow 
the  hour  would  strike  for  Mary  Eastwood  and  for 
him;  souls  would  unveil.  Yet  he  would  not  swerve 
from  the  trial.  He  would  come,  and  if  he  survived 


A    SELF-DISCOVERY  321 

he  would  hand  to  Ethel  Marr  her  release  from  Paul- 
ter's  baneful  shadow ;  a  gift  for  which  not  the  passion- 
ate "  I  "  would  await  acknowledgment,  but  which  the 
impersonal  "  idea  "  would  acclaim  as  its  own  satisfac- 
tion. The  name  "  Idea  "  was  as  hostile  as  the  trees, 
the  high  hills,  the  cold  sea  at  their  feet ;  it  echoed  from 
the  mountain  itself,  with  the  sound  of  eternity,  denying 
what  was  of  woman's  youth,  of  her  beauty,  of  her 
bounding  blood.  She  must  give  thanks  to  him,  change- 
less of  color,  quiverless  of  lip.  She  must  go  on,  alone. 
He  never  fully  could  have  respected  her.  There  were 
things  about  Mary  Eastwood  that  a  lifetime  would 
prove,  but  Mary  Eastwood  never  could  have  known 
such  a  man  as  Arthur  Paulter ;  never  could  have  stood 
stroking  his  cheek  in  fear  that  he  would  kill  some  one ; 
never  could  have  sat  alone  on  a  mountain-top,  armed 
with  his  own  dreadful  gift  against  what  his  unbridled 
instincts  might  lead  him  to,  in  a  solitude,  under  a  pas- 
sion that  so  degraded  her.  Ethel  thrust  her  hand  to 
part  the  bushes.  The  figure  that  advanced  around  the 
bend  was  at  a  glance  not  Paulter.  It  was  too  obvi- 
ously of  another  school.  It  was  clad  in  the  color  of 
the  rocks.  It  swung  strongly,  full  of  purpose,  full 
of  grace,  deep  in  thought.  Did  it  go  to  meet  its 
death  ?  She  paled ;  she  rose,  then  crouched,  then  rose 
again,  her  hand  toward  it.  It  passed,  erect,  light  of 
foot,  firm  of  mouth.  She  could  not  call  to  it.  It 
disappeared. 

Why  had  she  not  been  honest  with  herself?    Why 


322  JOHN    KEN  DRY9  S    IDEA 

could  she  not  go  to  the  event  in  the  abandonment  to 
truth  where  lay  the  one  solace,  the  one  dignity. 

"  I  do,  I  do/'  she  whispered  the  words  on  the  breeze. 
They  were  gone  and  the  breeze  never  would  give  them 
back.  Her  head  bowed  on  her  knees.  She  tossed  her 
hands  from  her  eyes,  stumbling  up.  But  there  was  no 
goal — the  mountain  at  last  had  turned  against  her. 
There  was  only  the  figure  of  another  man,  rounding 
the  bend  on  hasty  feet,  turning  to  look  behind  him, 
tightening  an  evil  mouth  she  knew  too  well,  going  with 
stealth  and  with  his  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat.  He 
would  not  look  up  to  the  waving  of  her  cape;  she 
could  not  break  fast  enough  down  through  that  dense 
growth  to  stop  him.  She  tore  open  the  bag  at  her 
belt.  The  explosion  of  that  pistol,  pointed  at  the 
ground,  seemed  to  shake  the  skies.  The  man  jumped 
and  whirled;  he  caught  at  last  her  moving  figure  on 
the  sky-line. 

Down  on  the  other  fork  of  the  trail  from  the  one 
Kendry  had  taken  she  waited  till  she  knew  that  Paul- 
ter,  struggling  through  the  brush,  had  sighted  her. 
She  broke  a  sapling  to  mark  her  flight  down  the  steep 
beyond — away  from  the  direction  Kendry  had  taken, 
through  a  battling,  pathless  tangle,  over  uncertain 
stones  and  hollow  pitfalls  hidden  by  nets  of  fallen  leaves 
on  fallen  branchlets.  The  sapling  still  quivered  when 
Paulter  leaped  exultingly  across  the  trail.  He  heard 
her  crashing  through  tough  scrubby  oaks,  interlocking 
redwood  shoots  and  clumps  of  ceanothus;  hood  on 


A    SELF-DISCOVERY  323 

head  she  could  not  match  his  carelessness  of  torn  skin, 
and,  somewhere  beyond,  he  pictured  Kendry  slackening 
his  speed  to  hers.  He  thought  he  saw  through  Ken- 
dry's  game,  now  that  he  had  read  the  newspaper  some 
one  had  dropped  off  the  mountain  train.  Kendry  had 
arranged  the  capture  of  Collins,  and  they  would  try 
to  hold  Paulter,  if  not  on  a  charge,  then  as  a  witness, 
so  that  Paulter  would  fail  to  appear  at  dawn  to-mor- 
row. Kendry  hadn't  calculated  on  what  was  happen- 
ing now!  Paulter  remembered  how  once  before  he 
had  lost  her,  because  his  own  crackling  of  dry  brush 
had  drowned  hers.  He  made  pauses;  they  sent  her 
ahead,  but  his  ears  stood  him  in  turn.  He  hated  the 
accursed  tangle  and  it  hated  him,  but  a  mere  woman 
could  not  fight  it  as  he  was  fighting.  He  came  to  a 
nearly  sheer  descent  of  many  feet,  the  face  of  the 
rock  hung  with  the  exposed  roots  of  the  fringe  of 
shrubs  above,  the  bottom  obscured  by  tall  redwoods. 
There  were  sounds  down  there — she  had  known  a 
quicker  way,  but  that  would  not  change  the  end,  so 
long  as  he  had  ears.  He  slid  down  with  stones  clatter- 
ing about  his  head ;  he  would  teach  them  better  shoot- 
ing than  that  effort  of  •  theirs  on  the  summit.  The 
sounds  became  confused,  nearer,  a  slow  beating  as  if 
with  a  heavy  stick  against  something  impassable,  as 
if  one  of  them  was  entangled  and  frantically  sought  to 
be  free.  He  hastened  along  the  bottom,  gloating, 
framing  his  speech,  glorifying  his  prowess.  The  face 
of  the  wall  ran  higher.  As  he  came  into  a  clear  space 


324  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 


a  heavy  stone  crashed  from  above  and  made  that 
sound  against  a  redwood  bough.  She  had  not 
descended.  She  had  walked  along,  hurling  down  the 
stones.  She  was  alone.  Now  he  heard  her  quick 
retreat  up  toward  the  trail  and  back  toward  whence 
he  had  been  coming  when  he  discovered  her.  Paulter 
threw  himself  down. 

"  All  right,"  he  presently  tossed  his  defeat  from  him. 
"  If  he  isn't  there  to-morrow,  I'll  go  to  where  he  is. 
Hand  'em  out  one  little  white  chip;  I'll  cash  in  some 
red  ones." 

He  lay  panting  on  his  back.  He  was  not  going  to 
risk  returning  to  the  house — not  until  he  had  read 
another  day's  newspaper  about  the  confession  of  Col- 
lins. The  sun  was  warm,  the  spot  was  sheltered  from 
the  wind.  He  put  the  newspaper  over  his  face. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

A  MIND  AND  A  PAIR  OF  PISTOLS 

KENDRY  had  paused  at  the  foot  of  another  face  of 
rock  high  on  the  mountain's  southern  side,  against 
which  the  sun  made  his  shadow  more  noticeable  than 
himself,  sending  up  in  the  reflected  warmth  about  his 
feet  the  bouquet  of  a  mid-California  day — the  mixture 
of  mints,  of  yerba  santa,  of  immortelles  and  of  other 
faintly  perfumed  leaves  and  flowers.  Lizards  basked 
and  darted  in  the  heat  radiating  between  his  eyes  and 
the  Pacific,  the  high  hills,  the  city  whose  gray  pall 
drifted  inland  on  a  lessening  breeze.  Often  he  had 
rejoiced  in  these  savors,  this  glittering  path  of  freights 
toward  the  roofs  and  spires  which  partly  showed  be- 
hind the  inner  headlands  of  the  Gate.  The  region  lays 
on  men  of  every  race,  every  mold,  its  bright  allurement. 
If  elsewhere  the  scenes  of  men's  works  more  finished, 
more  restrained,  had  aided  his  discriminations,  they 
never  had  abated  the  loyalty,  the  poetic  optimism  which 
glowed  on  his  viewing  that  empire  of  summits  fronting 
to  the  changeful  sea.  He  was  under  the  spell  perhaps 
for  the  last  time;  he  was  perhaps  to  leave  it  as  the 
hero  of  a  poor  sensational  episode,  tickling  the  minds 
of  the  majority ;  his  one  contribution  to  the  story  of 

325 


326  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

a  fair  haven  that  waited  for  spirits  schooled  like  his  to 
deliver  it  from  a  degree  of  self-debasement. 

In  the  kind  of  mortal  danger  he  went  forward  to, 
men  of  least  imagination  seek  a  fillip  otherwise  denied 
them;  faint  ecstatic  beings  flee  from  it,  and  only  men 
of  fancy  spiritually  deep  approach  it  with  full  fore- 
thought and  full  courage.  Not  but  that  Kendry  was 
approaching  death  in  a  stir  of  all  his  faculties,  while 
he  stood  with  the  liveliness  of  youth  responding  to  the 
ennerving  dryness  of  the  air  and  the  subtle  invitation 
of  the  flowers.  Death  passed  before  him  in  the  va- 
ried meanings  mankind  had  made  for  it,  out  of  fear, 
through  credulity,  into  faith.  To  him  the  fear  of 
after-death,  and  its  superstructure  of  faith  in  the  prom- 
ise of  eternal  life,  had  been  the  index  of  the  Christian 
Era,  and  the  decline  in  the  value  of  that  promise 
pointed  to  greater  peace  on  earth  and  to  the  greater 
majesty  of  man. 

The  weight  of  the  promise  had  been  its  negation  of 
the  alleged  terrors  of  death.  Before  this  negation,  this 
summum  bonum,  western  civilization  wearily  had  laid 
down  the  burden  of  natural  thought,  and  before  this 
closed  gate  the  multitude  had  rested  throughout  cen- 
turies. To  occasional  querulous  voices  the  promise 
repeated  itself  in  even  terms.  It  was  the  artificial 
stopping  point,  the  mortal  error,  in  a  world  of  unfath- 
omed  possibilities  of  spiritual  extension.  For  one  who 
bound  his  eyes  with  no  self -consecrated  fillet  and  for 
whom  the  instinct  to  evolve  existed  as  forcibly  as  the 


A  MIND  AND  A  PAIR  OF  PISTOLS      327 

instinct  to  avoid  death,  the  promise  of  eternal  happi- 
ness, offered  to  the  spirit  through  the  mind,  had 
the  value  of  that  which  the  mind  cannot  conceive. 
John  Kendry  could  not  imagine  light  which  makes 
no  shadow,  nor  actual  peace  except  from  actual 
threat  of  pain.  The  peace  which  passes  the  under- 
standing passed  for  him  into  the  negation  of  sentient 
being. 

If  to-day  this  did  not  decrease  a  young  man's  will- 
ingness to  die,  though  it  did  not  touch  on  his  will  to 
meet  the  issue,  it  heightened  his  joy  in  his  world, 
climbing  down  from  the  warm  rock  through  the  deli- 
cate air  of  manzanita  blossoms,  of  lilac-like  blooms  of 
the  ceanothus.  It  strengthened  his  hope  for  the  world 
he  knew,  when  all  the  incantations  wasted  upon  space 
should  be  translated  into  deeds  for  its  betterment.  The 
far  perspective  of  the  hills  aided  a  perspective  of 
humanity  congenial  to  his  soul.  The  world  was  not 
asleep  but  awakening.  As  ever,  the  ferment  was  in 
the  masses,  less  in  answer  to  the  shouting  of  the 
prophets  than  to  the  slow  digestion  of  centuries  of 
experience.  At  length  the  monster  had  ceased  to 
accept  specific  mortal  ills  in  meek  exchange  for  vague 
promises  beyond  the  grave.  On  the  one  side  stood  the 
spirit  of  truth  and  democracy,  and  all  the  extensions 
of  democracy  most  often  grouped  under  the  term 
socialism ;  on  the  other  side  stood  empiricism,  aristoc- 
racy, plutocracy,  and  the  machineries  of  the  allied 
faiths.  Everywhere  the  monster  moved  against  these 


328  JOHN   KEN  DRY9 S    IDEA 

old  forms  of  its  own  nourishing,  often  obtusely,  often 
without  mercy,  yet  always  under  the  same  new  instinct 
for  a  better  life  on  earth — a  life  which  should  stand 
to  that  of  the  present  inversely  as  the  superstitious 
domination  of  the  middle  ages  stood  to  spiritual  free- 
dom. This,  then,  was  the  deep  rumble  of  the  multitude 
as  in  harmony  with  which  John  Kendry  might  hope 
to  liken  his  idea  to  one  of  some  individual  silver  bells. 
To  know  that  harmony  released  him  from  the  loneli- 
ness he  had  found  when  he  had  asked  an  understanding 
of  the  idea  from  men  who,  as  it  happened  in  his 
acquaintance,  were  neither  of  conscious  bell  metal  nor 
of  the  intuitive  multitude. 

While  he  thought  these  things  he  went  over  dry 
ground  where  the  manzanita  thickly  shaded  its  roots 
among  which  no  grass  grew.  His  hobnails  grated  on 
the  angular  pebbles  and  startled  a  little  turquoise  snake. 
The  soil  changed  from  yellow  to  green,  the  vegetation 
became  lower  and  sparse  and  he  dug  his  heels  into  the 
loose  earth  of  a  steep  bank  and  came  down  on  to  a 
road  that  wound  to  seaward,  in  and  out  of  folds,  past 
springs,  and  into  a  strangely  altered  meadow  where 
flourished  ancient  yews  and  twisted  bays,  and  the  song- 
sparrow  did  not  wait  for  the  evening  hours,  but  sang 
for  the  joy  of  living  while  life  ran. 

But  birds  were  birds  and  men  were  men,  he  mused, 
and  the  building  of  nests:  here  were  a  man's  foot- 
prints in  the  sand  the  winter  rains  had  brought  upon 
the  road,  and  those  of  a  woman;  any  man  and  any 


A  MIND  AND  A  PAIR  OF  PISTOLS      329 

woman  walking  toward  the  sea's  horizon,  and  perhaps 
singing,  even  as  the  birds!  Presently  the  footprints 
were  joined  by  those  of  a  child,  as  if  it  had  been  set 
down  from  the  man's  shoulder.  There  was  the  balance 
on  heels,  the  dart  across  to  a  clump  of  yellow  poppies ; 
there  was  the  joyful  skip  to  join  the  others,  the  sudden 
discovery  of  the  soft  surface  near  a  waterway  into 
which  the  feet  had  sunk,  to  be  snatched  back  to  drier 
ground  and  to  blithely  wind,  trailing  a  stick,  to  where 
the  small  fingers  had  left  their  marks  in  the  scooping 
up  of  the  sand. 

It  was  this  he  was  to  forego,  Kendry  said  to  him- 
self, as  the  sea  came  into  nearer  view  and  as  the  four 
grown  footprints  assembled  where  the  child  had  been 
lifted  back  to  shoulder.  He  marveled  at  how  little 
he  ever  had  thought  of  man  in  his  capacity  of  father. 
He  had  let  it  lie  over  invisible  beyond  marriage.  And 
it  was  the  one  certain  approach  to  immortality  life 
had  to  show.  It  was  the  one  avenue  by  which  man's 
virtue,  his  experience,  his  essence,  lingered  after  him. 
If  it  lingered  in  combination  with  another  strain  it  was 
itself  such  a  combination,  and  in  the  union  all  romance 
was  exalted,  all  egoism  qualified.  Why  was  it  not 
enough  ?  Why  was  it  not  the  answer  to  the  thirst  for 
conscious  endlessness?  Why  was  it  not  noblest  to 
accept  the  extinction  of  one's  known  selfish  entity, 
rejoicing  in  and  glorifying  posterity  ?  Posterity !  The 
word  glowed.  To  live  for  posterity,  to  have  been  lived 
for  by  ancestry !  To  have  lived  in  ancestry,  and  in 


330  JOHN    KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

posterity  still  to  live;  posterity  and  ancestry  wherein 
all  men  were  blood  brothers  and  the  self-seeking  of  the 
individual  soul,  that  fretted  over  the  little  time,  the 
little  space  that  bound  it,  was  cast  aside  on  account  of 
its  morbidity!  To  build,  to  beautify,  to  preserve,  not 
for  the  covetous  moments  of  one's  own  evanescence, 
but  for  all  the  living  world  to  come!  It  asked  no 
strangling  of  the  instinct  for  thought;  it  was  founded 
on  human  experience,  human  intelligence;  it  crowned 
the  strongest  of  human  instincts  and  raised  it  out  of 
centuries  of  hypocritical  reproach ;  it  extended  human 
romance  through  marriage,  through  maturity,  through 
old  age ;  sweetly  and  without  strain  it  brought  together 
all  human  sympathy  and  understanding ;  it  made  infin- 
ite the  possible  extension  of  human  activities;  it  did 
all  this  and  asked  for  no  credulity,  for  no  especial 
temperament,  no  subversion  of  instinct,  no  symbol, 
because  it  began  with  the  first  principle  of  life,  beside 
whose  antiquity  all  beliefs  and  all  observances  were 
but  flaws  on  the  surface  of  the  deep. 

Kendry  smiled  a  little,  his  hands  tapping  the  pistols 
in  his  breast  pockets.  What  was  in  the  mind  of  Paul- 
ter  at  this  moment,  Paulter  who  would  have  dug  the 
shores  for  gold  till  the  sea  swallowed  him  up;  who 
would  have  corrupted  public  authority  till  anarchy 
destroyed  him;  could  have  worshiped  himself  until  he 
was  immolated  in  the  service  of  his  egotism  ?  Kendry 
drew  an  agreeable  breath  of  the  air  from  the  sea.  He 
tapped  his  boot  with  a  willow  switch.  There  was  a 


A  MIND  AND  A  PAIR  OF  PISTOLS      331 

difference  between  chance  and  odds.  He  intended  that 
the  odds  should  be  in  his  favor.  He  gave  up  his  mind 
to  the  details  of  a  violent  demise,  which  should  be  not 
his,  but  Paulter's. 

The  road  curved  out  of  the  last  sheltered  hollows 
to  the  treeless  slopes  that  descended  steeply  to  the 
shores.  He  passed  a  prosaic  cattle  ranch  and  a 
deserted  summer  camping  resort,  and  came  out  upon  a 
broad  sandpit  paralleling  the  shore  for  some  miles. 
He  became  an  unnoticeable  figure  on  it,  along  with  the 
huge  flotsam  of  timber  rafts  and  the  nimble  sand- 
peeps.  He  had  been  neither  a  duffer  nor  a  crack  shot ; 
he  never  had  met  anything  he  wanted  to 'kill  so  much 
as  he  wanted  its  living  acquaintance.  He  set  up  a 
bottle  on  a  stick  where  the  still  sea  lapped  the  sands. 
After  his  seven  bullets  had  been  sent  at  it,  the  bottle 
remained  intact.  Something  in  the  pull  of  his  finger, 
the  tension  of  his  breath,  deflected  his  aim.  He  spent 
two  hours  trying  to  disregard  his  breathing  and  to 
conquer  the  deflection.  There  was  in  the  calm  of  a 
successful  aim  a  seeming  denial  of  the  passion  that 
should  justify  killing  a  man.  It  was  difficult  to  accord 
to  the  sharpness  of  the  explosion  its  irrelevancy.  He 
made  a  target  something  of  a  man's  figure,  and  ran 
at  it  over  obstacles,  firing  as  he  went.  There  was  a 
point  from  which  he  could  not  miss ;  it  was  perhaps  a 
question  of  his  reaching  that  point  in  the  face  of 
Paulter's  fire.  He  sat  counting  the  possible  dangers, 
the  possible  developments,  till  the  sun  sank  into  the 


332  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

clouds  of  the  horizon.    No  optimism  had  resulted.    It 
was  not  odds ;  it  still  was  chance. 

He  ate  and  started  up  the  incline  again,  now  directly 
in  the  line  of  the  rendezvous,  where  he  planned  to 
secure  the  advantage  of  the  ground.  He  took  the 
ascent  slowly,  saving  all  strength.  At  the  top  the 
ground-robin  scuttled  beneath  the  brush,  the  meadow- 
lark  called  from  a  dead  tree ;  the  sense  of  eventide,  the 
dying  of  the  breeze,  the  cow  motionless  beyond  a 
fence,  the  cooler  smell  of  the  grass,  the  flat  glazed 
surface  of  the  sea,  the  gathering  gloom  to  eastward, 
these  weighed  on  the  mind  of  a  man  who  might  not 
see  the  fullness  of  another  morning.  The  shadows  of 
the  trees  went  long  upon  the  upper  meadows.  He 
crossed  their  park-like  stretches  where  the  redwood 
and  the  bay,  happily  not  contending  in  a  crowd  for 
light,  spread  their  branches  far  aground.  He  passed 
a  grove  of  madronos  large  and  small,  where  the  red 
disc  on  the  horizon  heightened  the  ochre  surface  of  the 
trunks  and  made,  with  its  flood  of  contrasted  color, 
its  vivid  setting  off  of  yellow  bough  and  bottle-green 
leaf,  its  irregularity  of  all  the  shapes  of  branch  and 
twig,  a  still  strange  mystery  of  which  the  essence  was 
unanswered  loneliness.  He  tried  to  dwell  upon  the 
beauty  of  the  rolling  hollows,  their  smooth  verdure 
and  the  setting  of  vigorous,  perfect  trees.  But  the 
sun  dropped  out  of  the  frame.  A  rabbit  ran  away 
and  paused,  obscurely  cocking  its  ears.  The  song- 
sparrow  ceased.  The  sea  was  lost  behind  the  rises 


A  MIND  AND  A  PAIR  OF  PISTOLS      333 

and  the  hollows,  and  the  sky  was  filling  with  high 
vapors  shutting  away  the  faint  stars.  In  that  wheel- 
ing of  the  birds  of  dusk,  that  alternate  regular  chirp 
of  the  crickets  far  and  near,  were  the  symbols  of 
solitude,  of  the  mind's  night,  of  the  endless  round 
while  men  struggled  to  change  the  world,  and  from 
the  struggle  suddenly  passed  into  the  inexplicable 
Silence. 

It  formed  in  him  a  wish  that  was  inconsistent,  yet 
would  not  down ;  that  for  a  while  there  might  be  some 
one  with  him.  It  was  not  the  occasional  crackling  of 
dry  leaves,  the  unexpected  stirrings  of  the  air,  that 
chilled  him.  It  was  a  sense  of  a  new  want,  of  an 
incompleteness,  of  an  unexpressedness,  to  which  only 
the  darkness  echoed.  It  led  him  back  to  Mary  East- 
wood's door.  He  could  have  stopped  there  with  her; 
he  could  have  had  his  half  hour  with  her,  and  their 
future  would  have  been  resolved.  This  would  not 
necessarily  have  met  his  present  yearning.  He  figured 
Mary  walking  at  his  side;  he  could  not  imagine  in 
what  garb,  what  inner  mood.  The  rustlings  in  the 
shadows,  the  forms  the  shrubs  and  fallen  trees  took 
on,  would  have  brought  her  nearer  him,  disconcerted 
and,  though  under  his  protection,  still  longing  for  her 
lights,  her  locks  and  keys,  her  servants.  The  stones 
would  have  hurt  her  feet,  and  she  would  have  shivered 
in  the  cooling  of  the  air.  He  would  have  reassured  her, 
but  it  was  he  himself  who  needed  reassurance,  not  as 
to  the  familiar  phenomena  of  night  in  the  wilderness, 


334  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

but  about  himself,  in  that  dimension  where  the  weak- 
ness of  man  equals  the  strength  of  woman. 

The  clouds  had  thickened  and  settled.  He  lost  the 
trail  and  went  on  with  a  woodsman's  sense  of  direction. 
Forms  faded  into  formlessness,  and  only  the  least  pene- 
tration of  the  shrouded  moon  gave  line  to  the  tops  of 
groves  of  trees  and  of  eminences.  He  came  out  onto 
the  drier  ground  again.  The  far  summits  dimly  ran 
against  the  clouds.  To  the  south  the  city  glimmered 
and  took  shape  out  of  the  darkness,  sending  a  few 
shimmering  reflections  into  the  waters  of  the  bay.  He 
picked  his  way  among  bowlders  and  through  thickets 
to  where  the  lone  tree  stood  against  the  rock.  Pistol 
in  hand  he  climbed  down  cautiously  onto  the  uneven 
terrace  overhanging  a  gulf  of  blackness.  He  listened 
long  and  heard  no  sound.  Evidently  he  was  first  and 
alone.  He  believed  that  no  one  could  approach  within 
pistol-shot  without  being  heard. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

THE    BEGINNING 

UP  back  of  him  the  outline  of  the  mountain  swept,  a 
little  blacker  than  the  clouds.  Beneath  the  gulf  beyond 
the  less  dim  surface  of  the  rock  the  hills  and  trees 
and  waterways  were  one  in  formlessness.  The  shel- 
tered shelf  at  the  rock's  edge,  waist  deep,  was  opposite 
the  tops  of  redwoods  through  whose  foliage  the  wind 
gave  now  and  then  a  sigh  against  the  silence.  There 
he  dropped  his  burden  from  his  back,  weary  not  with 
travel,  nor  with  foreboding,  but  with  the  length  of  the 
hours  that  must  pass.  He  gave  himself  to  groping  on 
each  tilted  plane,  over  each  crevice  with  a  struggling 
shrub  that  should  dispute  his  footing  on  his  way  to 
meet  an  adversary.  He  conned  the  points  that  would 
stand  out  up  the  slope  in  the  path  of  his  aim,  to  aid 
him;  he  studied  the  dim  contrast  he  himself  would 
make  as  a  mark  against  the  hillsides,  down  across  the 
distance,  that  would  be  shaded  by  the  morning  light 
beyond  them.  He  imagined  his  combat  till  attention 
lost  its  edge,  and  he  turned  his  back  on  the  scene  and 
acknowledged  the  flaw  in  that  calm  neutrality  he  had 
expected  to  perfect. 

Rightly,  he  should  be  sitting  erect,  heels  over  brink, 
335 


336  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

a  finished  figure  in  bronze,  symbolically  gazing  on  the 
reflection  of  the  far  clouds  above  the  city.  He  bowed, 
a  figure  of  clay ;  his  depression  deepened  with  the  slow 
progress  of  the  hidden  stars.  Past  the  walls  erected 
by  an  intellect  the  current  of  his  emotions  the  more 
violently  swept.  If  he  died  and  Mary  Eastwood  took 
half  his  fortune,  he  should  have  served  her  well.  But, 
in  defense  against  the  deadness  of  the  gloomy  hours 
he  let  himself  consider ;  what  as  to  her  if  he  lived  ? 

That  is  a  familiar  phase  through  which  he  had 
passed  in  Mary's  sympathetic  company.  He  had  been 
young,  linguistic,  capable  of  world-mindedness,  mov- 
ing toward  cosmopolitanism.  After  two  years,  when 
his  father's  death  had  called  him  back  to  his  own  coun- 
try, Kendry  had  suffered;  the  cacophony,  the  foolish 
haste,  the  ugliness,  the  corruption,  the  thousand  vul- 
garities, the  poverty  of  social  life — all  loomed  upon 
him  in  unhappy  oppositeness.  In  his  letters  to  Mary 
the  moment  had  been  of  their  closest,  if  still  undefined 
communion.  Gradually  he  had  been  accustomed — 
numbed,  Mary  would  have  said — to  much  that  first  had 
appalled  him.  Conditions  could  differ  more  than  men ; 
a  revelation  which  covered  his  own  country  and  justi- 
fied his  cosmopolitanism.  Amid  the  din  and  the  prat- 
ing of  self-sufficiency  he  distinguished  the  mounting 
cry  for  the  more  agreeable  to  the  eye,  the  more  admir- 
able in  social  intercourse,  and  for  a  public  morality. 
The  vastness  of  the  country  made  the  voices  seem  iso- 
lated— if  one  listened  for  the  ring  that  meant  the  deed 


THE    BEGINNING  337 

behind  the  word.  Social  life  was  invertebrate,  and  the 
organization  of  society  singularly  deficient  in  the  power 
and  means  of  veracious  self-expression.  The  cry  was 
the  cry  of  a  minority  under  the  despotism  of  a  major- 
ity, and  he  lived  in  a  longitude  where  men,  a  little  too 
sleek,  are  prone  to  beg  the  question  of  public  honesty 
by  an  appeal  to  the  glorious  climate,  as  with  creative 
pride.  But  the  familiar  lines  brought  him  to  his 
restored  balance.  To  youth  America,  in  every  field 
but  those  of  certain  arts,  meant  opportunity.  And 
where,  even  from  a  world  point  of  view,  the  most 
glorious  opportunity  lay,  the  field  was  least  crowded; 
the  fateful  fight  to  rouse  responsibility  in  the  sheep 
whose  march  to  the  polls,  overfed,  underbred,  was  a 
pageant  for  the  enemies  of  democracy.  Though  to 
live  the  mildest  of  lives  in  the  land  of  his  birth  meant 
that  his  chances  of  being  maimed  or  murdered  were 
perhaps  three  times  as  great  as  they  were  under  the 
effete  monarchies:  that  was  part  of  the  price  of  this 
greatest  of  opportunities,  and  he  was  willing  to  pay  the 
whole  price. 

It  brought  him  to  the  question  how  to  begin,  con- 
sidering that  he  was  neither  "  a  good  fellow  "  nor 
perhaps  naturally  gifted  as  a  leader  of  men.  The 
answer  to  that  was  that  any  man  must  shine,  at  least 
as  an  example,  whose  motives  transcend  his  own 
aggrandizement  and  his  own  times.  Extending  that, 
he  had  framed  his  idea.  He  had  striven  to  convert 
Mary  to  it. 


338  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

During  the  time  since  his  episode  with  Paulter  on 
the  mountain,  during  his  succeeding  days  of  disheart- 
enment — hence  of  so  little  importance,  yet,  except  to 
himself,  as  if  he  had  dropped  like  a  pebble  into  the 
sea  he  could  have  wished  to  convulse — Mary  had  been 
an  added  weight.  Now,  as  he  looked  across  to  that 
crowded  precinct  where,  despite  her  horror  of  it,  she 
would  have  preferred  to  be,  rather  than  on  this  rock, 
he  saw  that  he  had  converted,  not  her  spirit,  but  per- 
haps her  heart.  He  saw  that  it  had  been  the  shadow 
of  this  conclusion  that  had  made  him  put  off  thinking 
about  her. 

If  he  survived,  if  he  rushed  to  find  her,  if  he  said 
nothing  contrary,  they  would  drift  back  to  Europe — 
inevitable  for  Americans  when  drift  they  must.  Mary 
would  not  object  to  his  becoming  a  man  without  a 
country;  his  matured  cosmopolitanism  would  count, 
not  for  a  luminous  view  of  the  hundred  facets  of  life 
under  the  Constitution,  but  for  enjoyment,  for  dilet- 
tanteism,  for  a  fussy,  unaccountable  old  age.  Against 
which,  even  at  his  feeblest,  there  would  wax  the  sad- 
ness, the  regrets  of  expatriation.  The  knowledge  of 
this  would  be  Mary's  fear,  her  unexpressed  reservation 
— of  ample  possibilities  for  conjugal  chafing — that 
some  day  he  might  set  sail  and  grimly  become 
American. 

She  had  accepted  the  idea  with  resignation,  not 
with  joy.  For  the  idea  anything  other  than  enthusi- 
asm was  antagonism.  That  was  as  clear  as  the  black 


THE    BEGINNING  339 

form  of  the  horned  owl  that  flapped  past  him  and 
alighted  in  the  near  obscurity. 

He  thought  he  had  made  this  discovery  without  the 
help  of  other  force.  He  thought  he  was  self -governed 
in  the  medium  wherein  he  was  groping.  If  so,  and 
since  he  yet  could  withdraw  with  honor,  though  not 
with  fine  consistency,  why — if  he  was  to  withdraw 
to  what  would  be  completer  loneliness — did  he  hasten 
to  light  a  match,  perhaps  endangering  his  life,  in  order 
that  the  letter  he  had  torn  open  might  at  last  be  read  ? 

"  Must  I  protest  against  this  duel — this  unspeakable  folly 
with  Miss  Marr's  friend,  when  her  protest  will  have  been  effect- 
ual or  will  have  made  mine  ridiculous  ?  I  shall  have  started 
for  Europe,  to  be  sure  of  Tuesday's  steamer.  There  seems  no 
reason  for  my  lingering.  The  train  leaves  at  8:30  Wednesday 
evening.  Mother,  whom  I  have  not  alarmed,  wishes  me  to 
congratulate  you  for  her,  on  your  remaining  an  American. 

"  As  ever, 

"  MARY." 

By  this  hour  Mary's  train  would  be  climbing  the 
Sierra.  Another  day  and  still  she  could  have  caught 
the  Tuesday  steamer.  But  she  had  announced  herself 
able  to  go  without  waiting  to  hear  the  outcome.  He 
stood  up,  the  better  to  realize  his  freedom,  his  light- 
ness. What  fell  upon  his  head  was  the  completeness, 
perhaps  the  unalterableness,  of  his  isolation,  as  if  the 
rock  was  surrounded  by  depth  and  darkness  and  dis- 
tance through  which  he  never  could  pass. 

They  had  traveled  a  stretch  of  road  together;  but 
his  destination  had  been  for  a  life  that  should  exalt 


340  JOHN   KENDRY'S   IDEA 

the  spirit,  though  at  the  cost  of  pain ;  hers  had  been  for 
an  escape  from  responsibility,  counting  no  cost.  The 
owl  quavered  from  its  black  hiding  place :  "  Ou-ou; 
ou-uh-ou — "  as  it  had  hooted  to  him  that  night  beneath 
the  fog  in  his  pursuit  of  Ethel  Marr. 

How  magnificently  Mary  might  have  taken  his  view, 
shared  his  generosity,  brightening  Ethel  Marr's  career ! 
Mary  could  have  dispelled  all  self-consciousness;  he 
could  have  handed  the  situation  to  her  as  he  had  found 
it;  he  could  have  fallen  back  to  the  position,  not  of 
Miss  Marr's  chance  acquaintance,  but  of  Mary's  ex 
officio  ally.  With  all  eloquence  and  assumption  of  her 
responsiveness  he  had  pointed  the  way  to  Mary,  and 
she  had  gone  straight  upon  her  divergent  path.  It 
had  left  the  enterprise  blasted.  It  had  left  him  neither 
here  nor  there.  It  had  brought  him  to  the  rock,  instead 
of  disposing  of  Paulter  by  a  gradual  process  in  which 
Kendry  would  have  figured  as  a  force  without  a  name. 
It  had  given  him  a  chance  to  die  without  the  whisper 
in  his  ears  of  other  lips :  "  I  understand." 

Nothing  he  could  write,  he  muttered,  with  a  moist 
hand  gripping  the  rock,  would  make  Ethel  understand. 
Only  what  he  never  might  be  able  to  do  would  prove 
to  her  that  he  had  not  waited  here  in  doubt  of  his 
heart,  in  doubt  of  the  idea,  a  cargo  of  flaccidity  beached 
on  an  undiscovered  shore.  He  was  dragging  slow 
chains  through  the  hours.  His  detachment  was  as 
complete  as  if  already  he  was  dead.  His  young  woe 
was  as  deep  as  his  unfulfilled  ideal  had  been  exalted. 


THE    BEGINNING  341 

He  was  seized  by  a  terrifying  double-consciousness; 
the  sense  of  receding  from  himelf,  within  himself,  of 
looking  back  on  himself,  hearing  and  knowing  the 
thing  he  was,  in  pitiful  intimacy.  The  thing  moved 
along  the  shelf,  seeking  a  stone,  anything  to  silence  the 
hooting  of  that  owl.  The  thing  fussed  over  its  miser- 
able little  life,  its  little  theories,  its  little  emotions — one 
particle  flickering  one  moment  in  all  time,  all  stellar 
dust. 

"  I  never  have  lived,"  it  groaned. 

He  had  thrust  his  hand  at  a  shadow,  feeling  for  a 
stone.  The  hand  had  touched  what  was  soft,  what 
was  round,  what  was  a  fabric.  It  moved.  He  ex- 
claimed in  his  throat.  The  owl  flew  off. 

"  It's  you!  "  he  said.  He  dropped  back  against  the 
rock.  "  Wonderful,  wonderful !  " 

No  one  else  would  have  answered  with  silence.  He 
threw  himself  down  near  her  and  held  a  fold  of  her 
cape,  taut  from  her  shoulder.  He  could  feel  her  shoul- 
der rise  and  fall ;  he  could  be  sure  that  she  would  not 
dissolve. 

"  My  marvelous  good  fortune,"  his  chest  hove.  She 
seemed  to  shake  her  head. 

"  If  I  hadn't  been  responsible " 

"  No,  no — responsive,"  he  cried.  "  Responsive — 
everything."  He  could  not  judge  when  the  dawn 
would  come.  "  I'll  tell  you  things  presently."  For 
the  moment  it  was  enough  to  feel  the  life  within  her 
moving  the  cape. 


342  JOHN   KENDRY'S    IDEA 

"  The  letter  was  Mary's  announcement  of  her  return 
to  Europe/'  he  began.  "  She  foresaw  that  she  would 
not  be  necessary  to  my  happiness.  I  groaned  because 
I  possess  nothing  that  is."  He  could  see  the  outline 
of  her  hood.  She  must  have  been  long  kneeling. 
"  How  you'll  be  cramped !  " 

"  My  foot's  asleep,"  she  half  laughed,  changing  her 
position.  He  took  up  the  pull  on  her  cape  again,  and 
together  they  gazed  across  to  where  the  city  lay. 

"  How  shall  you  like  my  finished  creed?"  he  pres- 
ently said.  "  It's  to  look  upon  the  beauty  of  the  world 
and  upon  what  one  can  do  to  increase  that,  not  as  one 
who  expects  to  leave  the  world,  but  as  one  who  expects 
to  live  in  it  forever.  It's  to  assume  that  one  does 
live  in  it  forever ;  either  in  the  posterity  of  one's  own 
blood,  or  the  posterity  of  one's  example.  It's  the  idea 
projected,  reconciled  with  mortality.  It  asks  you  to 
be  content  with  such  immortality  as  passes  from  you 
into  the  future  of  the  world.  Has  it  ever  come  to  you 
like  that?" 

"  What  else  would  content  me  with  being  a  woman  ? 
You've  given  a  woman's  answer  to  all  the  philosophies 
in  the  world." 

"  It  must  be  the  right  one.  In  the  end  every  normal 
thinker  brings  his  great  theory  to  some  woman  and 
lays  it  in  ridiculous  little  glinting  pieces  at  her  feet. 
He  thinks  she  doesn't  know  that  his  circle  isn't  com- 
plete, and  she  charmingly  lets  him  think  so,  while  the 
world  rolls  on  and  she  remains  the  one  unalterable 


THE   BEGINNING  343 

fact.  Nunc  dimittis!  I  have  talked  enough.  I  shall 
wade  into  that  American  city.  It's  a  swamp  of  dis- 
trust, where  men  run  about  trying  to  sell  their  liberties 
at  the  lowest  price.  If  it  were  not  so — more  than  I 
have  ever  saddened  you  with — I  never  should  have 
thought  these  things  so  much  alone.  Those  who  will 
give  their  time  and  forego  their  enrichment,  trying  to 
redeem  it,  are  a  tragic  few.  I  shall  be  one  of  them. 
I  shall  have  lost  my  critical  aloofness,  my  diffidence 
with  my  contemporaries.  I  shall  be  in  good  company ; 
I  shall  have  found  my  career.  So  much  for  one's  rela- 
tions with  men.  Does  the  woman  approve  ?  " 

"  Doesn't  it  follow  ?  "  But  she  heavily  sighed.  The 
air  stirred  the  trees  and  certain  wakened  birds  foretold 
the  dawn. 

"  Your  beauty,"  he  glowed.  "  It's  so  marvelously 
compelling.  I  have  never  said  so.  Often  I  have 
dreamt  of  you.  It's  a  beauty  one  need  not  be  afraid 
of.  It's  not  merely  youth — it's  you.  You  as  you  are, 
as  you  will  remain,  just  as  one  would  have  you,  without 
one  flaw.  It's  a  joy  to  have  said  so." 

The  hood  turned  toward  him;  she  pushed  it  off 
her  head,  and  he  thought  it  was  because  he  so  well 
knew  her  features  that  he  could  make  out  the  move- 
ment of  her  lips. 

"You  said4  compelling'?" 

"  Overwhelming !  So  much  so  that  one,  held  back, 
asking  if  it  was  safe.  Then " 

"Is  it  safe?" 


344  JOHN    KENDRY'S    IDEA 

"  Gloriously  safe." 

She  was  on  her  knees  again,  facing  him.  Her  fin- 
gers touched  his  sleeve. 

"  Do  you  love  to  walk  in  the  woods  at  night  ?  "  she 
said.  "  When  the  trees  are  only  forms  and  the  stars 
are  only  fires — so  simple  and  still,  so  convincing.  Do 
you  like  to  go  without  thinking,  without  speaking  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes." 

"  Only  to  be  primitive — only  to  live.  Wouldn't  it 
refresh  your  soul  ?  Wouldn't  you  like  once  to  be  irre- 
sponsible? Why  do  you  say  I  am  beautiful,  you 
have  never  known  me  yet.  Look !  "  She  showed  him 
the  parted  clouds  in  the  west.  "  It  takes  that  star- 
light, it  takes  that  solitude — I'm  shivering  now.  It 
takes  the  flame,  the  touch,  the  madness,  to  make  me 
beautiful.  It's  over  there,"  she  whispered.  "  Come, 
while  the  night  lasts,"  he  groaned.  Her  warm  breath 
was  on  his  ear,  her  breast  was  soft  against  his 
shoulder. 

"  After  dawn,  after  dawn." 

"  Then  it  will  be  hateful  day.  No,  into  my  beautiful 
night.  Come." 

"  To-morrow  night.  I  shall  live.  To-morrow 
night." 

He  could  have  crushed  her  for  standing  off  from 
him.  But  she  was  holding  out  her  arms.  He  could 
see  the  glorious  confusion  of  her  hair. 

"  To-night  is  the  only  night  in  the  world.  I  shall 
be  truly  beautiful.  I  shall  not  think ;  I  shall  not  speak ; 


THE    BEGINNING  345 


I  shall  not  care.  I  shall  only  live — live,  for  once.  Ah, 
come !  " 

"  God!  "  he  jumped  up  to  her.  "  I  can't  come!  I 
won't  come!  That  is  a  greater  triumph  for  you  than 
if  I  had." 

She  buried  her  head  in  her  cape  on  the  edge  of 
the  terrace. 

"  If  I  had  been  beautiful!  If  what  you  said  were 
true!" 

At  his  movement  she  stood  up  and  away  from  him. 

"  I've  seen  what  you  have  in  your  hand,"  he  ad- 
vanced. "  You  must  give  it  to  me." 

Her  free  palm  thrust  him  back  with  a  force  he  could 
not  have  guessed.  She  cried  out,  in  fear  that  she 
had  spun  him  over  into  space,  then  fled  from  him.  He 
caught  her  elbows,  taxed  to  all  his  power.  Youth 
could  not  withstand  her  strong  perfection  palpitating 
in  his  arms. 

"  I've  tried  to  let  you  go  without  one  touch  from 
me,"  he  said.  "  I  love  you,  I've  said  it.  It's  because 
I  love  you  less." 

"  It's  because  you  love  me  more.  Come — come  with 
me — what  else  matters!  Ah,  let  go  my  hand,"  she 
sobbed.  He  threw  her  pistol  into  the  abyss. 

"  You  are  mine.  You  must  do  as  I  say.  You  must 
let  chance  decide.  You  must  go."  He  set  her  free. 
He  had  not  kissed  her.  It  was  at  the  fearful  edge  of 
the  rock  he  caught  her  again  and  shook  her  with  his 
trembling.  "  No,  no!  "  he  shuddered,  hard  upon  her 


346  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S    IDEA 

lips.  When  he  let  those  speak  her  arms  were  stifling 
him. 

"  See  if  you  can  break  my  hold,"  she  threatened. 
"  I  love  you  and  I  will  not  go.  Promise  that  I 
stay." 

Out  of  her  visible  eyes  flamed  that  which  made  him 
colossal. 

"  Where  you  were,  where  you  won't  be  seen,"  he 
whispered. 

She  let  him  lead  her  there,  folding  her  cape  about 
her.  The  trees  were  resolving  from  the  shades.  The 
morning  star  stood  faintly  in  the  open  west.  Birds 
flew  and  called.  The  eastern  hills  rose  up  against 
the  broken  clouds. 

They  waited,  sitting  together,  her  chin  upon  his 
shoulder.  His  jaw  set  firmer  while  she  drank  him  in 
with  frightened  eyes.  Her  fingers  stole  over  his  face, 
in  the  full  dawn  where  no  man's  footstep  echoed,  softly 
touching  the  lines  that  so  had  sunk  into  her  young 
heart  when  first  she  had  begged  him  back  to  life  on 
that  mountain-side.  Would  he  go  once  more  into  the 
silence  forever.  She  shuddered.  The  eastern  hills 
were  the  edge  of  a  fiery  sword.  He  turned  to  her. 
Morning — morning,  amber  light  upon  her  hair !  They 
thought  they  heard  a  step. 

Her  fingers  quivered  on  his  shoulder. 

"  O  God— we  still— still  can  go." 

"Listen!" 

The  steps  were  mechanical,  scuffling  over  the  gravel 


THE   BEGINNING  347 

of  the  trail.  It  was  as  if  they  had  lost  their  way  in 
the  deep  dark  of  that  other  canon;  as  if  doggedly  at 
last  they  nevertheless  came  to  their  goal.  They  left 
the  trail  and  became  a  swish  in  the  bushes.  Kendry 
tore  off  her  hands  and  leaped  away. 

"  If  you  reach  out  I  shall  maim  your  hand,"  he 
held  up  the  butt  of  his  pistol.  She  bowed  upon  her 
knees.  He  sprang  to  the  rock. 

"Halt!"  he  cried,  to  the  bloodshot  eyes. 

She  was  at  one  side,  a  scarlet  patch,  erect. 

"I  love  him!" 

The  dry  lips  spat  at  her  the  venom  of  a  caitiff  soul. 
He  was  shooting,  not  at  Kendry,  but  at  Ethel.  Ken- 
dry  had  tripped;  all  plans  had  come  to  naught.  He 
fired  from  his  side,  slowly,  without  the  movement  of 
an  eye.  Paulter  crouched  behind  a  shrub.  The  smoke 
drifted  away  from  his  pistol.  The  pistol  was  all  that 
Kendry  could  see. 

"Jack?" 

"  Obey — obey !  "  he  waved  her  back. 

The  pistol  did  not  turn  to  cover  him  as  he  ap- 
proached. The  arm  was  caught  in  the  stiff  fork  of 
the  manzanita. 

"  My  Jack!" 

He  came  back  to  her. 

"  It's  very  complete — it's  horrible.  Give  me  your 
cape."  He  motioned  her  by  another  way  to  leave  the 
rock.  Presently  he  returned,  coatless,  pale. 

"  It's  his  tragedy.     We " 


348  JOHN   KEN  DRY'S   IDEA 

He  took  her  fingers  from  her  arm.  Some  blood 
was  coloring  her  sleeve. 

"  It's  just  a  little — just  enough/'  she  smiled  to  him. 

They  came  along,  hand  in  hand,  her  arm  in  a  tour- 
niquet of  his  making,  to  the  last  level  stretch  of  the 
trail,  where  they  saw  over  the  broad  distance.  Flowers 
looked  up  to  them ;  birds  started  from  their  feet.  Be- 
yond lay  the  world. 

"  You — you  are  the  idea,"  he  held  her. 

"  Ah,  no,  you — you." 

He  pointed  far  to  where  the  sun  glinted  on  the  win- 
dows of  the  city. 

"  We  will  be  the  idea." 

So  they  went  down  together  toward  the  city  built 
on  sand,  where  most  men  built  with  sand  and  saw 
through  sand,  and  many  slaved  and  some  slew  for 
sand.  For  those  men's  souls  were  mostly  as  sand — 
which,  swirled  aloft  by  a  gust  of  prosperity,  takes  the 
hollow  form  of  its  trivial  moment,  then  falls  to  shape- 
lessness,  sand  upon  sand. 

But  she  was  the  true  fruit  of  a  land  of  sunshine  and 
of  flowers,  and  he  was  the  vindicating  product  of  its 
abundance  and  of  its  gold.  For  them  life  stood  forth 
in  a  glorious  meaning,  and  they  went  down  patiently 
to  build,  out  of  youth,  out  of  love,  out  of  the  idea, 
what  should  have  the  dignity  of  the  mountain  that 
swept  the  sky  to  northward — majestic,  clear,  resplen- 
dent in  the  morning. 

THE  END 


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